When Death Calls (Renegades Saga, Book 7)
by Renegades Inc
Summary: The civil war caused by the Emperor's abandoning the Imperial Truth rages on. Mortarion of the Death Guard and Perturabo of the Iron Warriors, allies of rebel Warmaster Horus, have made peace with each other, but now face the knowledge of being betrayed by one of their favored sons. The truth, though, is worse than they think. Written by gothik, 2012-2013. Takes place late 003.M41.
1. Introduction

It is a period of civil war. Rebel spaceships, led by the former imperial Warmaster Horus, are beginning their campaigns against the corrupted Imperium of Man.

Against them, the nigh-immortal Emperor waits on his Golden Throne. Allied with him are the four Chaos Gods, eldritch nightmares thirsting for human suffering. The Space Marines, once the Imperium's finest soldiers, are divided. With the breaking of the bond between Horus and the Emperor, even the strength of Legion brotherhood splinters under the pressure. For that brotherhood was held together by simple loyalty, and in these days, with the universe full of evil and doubt, no loyalty is simple.

Among Horus's Primarch brothers who have aligned with his rebellion are Mortarion of the Death Guard and Perturabo of the Iron Warriors, neither possessed of the most savory reputation. Now, Horus dispatches them to lead the armies that hope to save humanity from the laughter of thirsting gods. The coldly logical Perturabo prepares for war by studying every detail of the changing tactics of his greatest rival - Rogal Dorn, the Emperor's Champion - and his Imperial Fists Legion, for he knows that the two of them, siegemasters both, will face each other in due time. Mortarion, wrapped in a cloak of ill omens, remembers the pict-film he discovered of the World Eaters and Salamanders purging their own ranks of those doubting the Emperor, and the dead bodies memorializing that struggle. Yet he cannot perceive the echo that massacre is creating.

The screams and pleas of the innocent will have no effect - not anymore. The age of debate and enlightenment is over. The dream of empire has ended.

The nightmare has begun.


	2. Chapter One

He sat behind his desk, tapping his fingers to a unheard drumbeat in his head. The private quarters were silent except for the slight hiss from his gorget every now and then, as he breathed in the air of his home world.

His mind was still reeling from the events of the last few months. Prospero gone - he had heard the news on Barbarus, while working on a certain project with the Mechanicum, and perhaps that made the blow even worse, in a sympathetic fashion. He could not believe it: he had no love for psykers, but even so, genocide on that scale against a Primarch's home world was unheard-of. As much as he distrusted psykers, as much as, if truth be told, there was still no love lost between himself and Magnus, even he would never have wished that.

When Horus had sent out a missive to his brothers that, if they had any novitiates that had not yet been implanted with the gene-seed of their fathers and showed psychic promise, they should send them Kegara to aid in the rebuilding of the Thousand Sons. He had done more than that: those that had started implantation and yet showed signs of psychic power had immediately been sent with the novitiates. In a way, it felt good that he was helping rebuild his brother's decimated Legion, and in another it was a weight off his mind, not to have to deal with witch sons on his own doorstep.

But even after they had recovered from the shock of Prospero, the death of the Great Khan was a blow that none of them had foreseen.

It would have been laughable, in a sense, if it was not so chilling. Primarchs were the pinnacle of gene-technology, often thought immortal, to the point where, to less enlightened minds, they were demigods of war that strode the field of battle with their immortal sons, bringing the Imperium's enemies to heel like mythical heroes. Now, they were vulnerable to something that they did not understand.

The wound had not been so severe in itself, not even after accounting for the poison. Something had been coated on that cursed hammer that Vulkan had wielded, and whatever it was was anathema to the Primarchs. It seemed that it prevented their own unique healing from doing its job. And with that, the stresses and strains of battle with the – and this time he uttered a disbelieving laugh, at his brothers' shock at a type of witchery that he had fought a hundred times in his youth – _undead_ warriors of Nocturne and Chogoris proved to be too much.

He doubted any of them would be complacent in their longevity now, though for his own part he never had been. He had never been close to his father, had never forgiven him for the killing of his adoptive father, for that had been Mortarion's battle to win or lose. But he had never believed that his father would willingly accept the death of a Legion's home-world, the crippling of a Primarch, and now the death of a Primarch, all so off-handedly, as if none of it mattered.

What troubled him now was that Horus had had a big argument with the Primarch of the Ultramarines, though neither Primarch was forthcoming as to what had caused it. He had no real love for Guilliman; he found the Thirteenth's method of battle restricting and, in truth, as one who prided himself on letting his captains and his sons think on their feet, he could not see how the Ultramarines had survived so long with their military doctrine. Then a secret voice at the back of his head answered his own thought for him, _but of course we all know why the Ultramarines are one of the largest, if not the single largest, Legions._ He dismissed the voice angrily; it was not to be spoken of, even now.

He got up and looked out of his window. Space filed by lazily, and for a brief moment he felt like he was on one of the sailing ships that cruised the oceans of primitive worlds. For all the insanity of this war, his and his Legion's place in it was not in doubt, and greater projects were brewing, standing in wait of their hour. He should have been content but he was not; he was troubled. For weeks now, the tyrants had been several steps ahead of the Coalition. Somehow, they had information as to where the Legions of Horus would strike next, in the battles to keep Imperial worlds Imperial or destroy those that were venerating the Emperor as a god. They had a leak within the highest ranks of their Legions, and whilst they did not know who or where, every Primarch was fearfully hoping that it was not one of their own closest sons.

Just last week, his Sixth Captain, Mishoga Ostana, had died on the planet of Jesarus IX against a force of Imperial Fists. The mission was supposed to have been secret, and a large part of the Sixth Great Company had been all but decimated. Even now, some of those sons were in serious condition on the Death Guard vessel _Reaper's Shroud_. He just could not understand how the mission had leaked out.

Only he and Perturabo had known about it, and though they were not close, Mortarion knew Perturabo had lost far more troops than him. The Comrade was bellowing at the Imperial Fists who had holed up in a bastion, giving the ancient rivals more to work with and reducing them to their natural roles in siege warfare. The only regret that had been mentioned was that Dorn had not been there, and despite the losses, the mission intel had made him only happy for the Comrade.

He almost wished he had been there to see the master of Olympia take on his old rivals. He had told Ostana to do as Perturabo ordered, that he was to follow the Olympian as he would his own sire. Perturabo had been most gracious in his words of honour following the death of the Captain and much of his company, and that, in any roll of valour, was enough to be proud off. Perturabo, to put it kindly, did not give out praise to other Legions often. If Mortarion were honest, if not for that praise, he would have thought Perturabo had used his sons as cannon fodder... well, if such losses had come about without the leak, that would have been the sensible explanation.

But as it were, they had a common foe, and so Mortarion was now waiting for the arrival of his brother. Together they would figure out if they had a leak within their own warriors or if it was one of the traitors posing as a member of Death Guard or Iron Warrior.

"My Lord, I apologise for the intrusion upon your privacy, but you may wish to hear this message we have just received," the voice of the watch officer came over his vox.

"Relay it to me here, Watch Officer Jarfara," Mortarion softly said, knowing Jarfara would not do this lightly.

"Yes, my lord, sending now."

He waited, then listened.

"This is the _Demeter_. I am Custode Amon Tetromach, the last true Custode, I am asking for any of the true Imperial Legions to give me and my two companions safe harbour."

"Where is that coming from?" he demanded of the Watch Officer.

There was silence for a moment, and then: "Fifty degrees spinward, my lord, we are within range to intercept."

"Do so. If a brother Custode has survived, then I want to see this for myself."

"By your will, lord."

Mortarion sat down and rested his thin fingers together. Something must have happened for one such as Amon to be a fugitive from the man whose side he had never truly left. If Amon needed sanctuary, then he would find it aboard the _Indomitable Will_. If he was a spy, though, he would meet no mercy.

* * *

Garviel Loken stood, staring out the window of the gigantic observation deck aboard the _Vengeful Spirit_. He sported a black armband marked with a silver lightning bolt; all the Mournival did, as a way of showing respect to Jaghatai Khan. Though Loken had never fought alongside the Fifth himself, the other members of the Mournival had memories to share, to say nothing of the Warmaster's grief. And Loken did not want to believe what he knew now to be true, that a Primarch had fallen, regardless of which it had been; it had taken his mind several days to process the knowledge, and then several days more to accept it as fact and not some misunderstanding inferred from the enemy's lies.

Gone were the days that he knew who 'the enemy' was; it was no longer just the worlds that rebelled against the idea of Illumination. Although they still continued the Great Crusade, it was no longer a matter of bringing worlds under the aquila beneath his lord's and his lord's brother's banners. No, now the enemy was also those he once called brothers-in-arms, cousins that he had fought alongside with pride and honour. He rested his head against the coolness of the glass, as if that action alone could take away the horror of the last few months.

He still could not even believe that a Primarch lay crippled, and Magnus of all the Primarchs to be laid so low had disturbed him greatly, but now the great Khan... He wondered what would happen if the same had happened to his beloved father, the great Horus Lupercal, whether Abaddon would be able to fill the void that would be left in such a wake, as Jubal Khan now had to do for the sons of Chogoris. Of course, now Horus was Warmaster, the heart of the rebellion, and thus even more important. Would there be any hope left at all, if Lupercal fell?

"What's on your mind, Garvi?"

He turned and straightened as Little Horus Aximand came into the bay. His Mournival brother joined his side and looked out the window with him. Since the coming to light of the treacherous behaviour of the fallen Legions and their own grandfather, the Mournival, at least, seemed to have become closer. He loved his Mournival brothers, but in the beginning he had been closer to Tarik. Since Venus IX, though, the council's balance seemed to be more symmetric.

"I am just thinking, that is all, Horus."

Aximand nodded and clasped his hands behind his back. He too looked like he had the weight of the Primarch on his shoulders. Which indeed he did; like his other Mournival brothers and Malgohurst, the Equerry, they were doing all they could to lighten the Primarch's load in light of recent events.

There was a companionable silence for several long moments, before, slowly, Loken broke it.

"I was wondering if we would know an enemy from a former friend, brother or cousin if the time came."

"How do you mean, brother?" Aximand asked.

"I mean that, when light of the Emperor's new edicts came out, some of our own brothers have renounced their vow to Horus and returned to Terra, the same with the Ultramarines and whomever else. Why would they do that, after all that has happened?"

Aximand was silent for a moment or two longer, considering his brother's question and framing his answer in his mind. Of all the Mournival, Little Horus least often did anything without thought or consideration, and that included discussions on more sensitive issues.

"Perhaps the thought of renouncing their vows to their Primarchs was a lot easier to accept than renouncing their vows to the Emperor. It is just a shame that it appears to be the Terran-born Astartes that are returning to the side of the Emperor."

Loken had noticed that: when news had broken, many of the Terran Luna Wolves had left the _Vengeful Spirit_ , and soon word returned to Horus that others had returned to Terra to be beside the Emperor. Horus had not been shocked, for after all the Luna Wolves were Terran before they became Cthonian.

Abaddon, though, had been almost incandescent with rage. He just did not want to believe that any of Horus's sons could turn their backs on the Warmaster, regardless of where they had been born. Loken did not blame him; he had seen some brothers leave his own company, brothers that had fought alongside him for decades.

"Maybe, because they were beside the Emperor when he found Lupercal, they believed their loyalties lay with him first," Loken surmised. "Maybe Ezekyle has a point on that."

Aximand cast Loken an amused look. "You know, Garvi, there was a time when you would never have said anything like that."

Loken frowned a little, unsure of what his brother was saying, and then broke into a mild chuckle and nodded in agreement. Aximand chuckled with him, but the sound was as harsh as Cthonian flint.

"Come, brother, the Warmaster wishes the Mournival to attend him; there is something he wishes to speak to us about before he tells the rest of the Legion."

Now intrigued, Loken began to walk with Aximand. "Are you going to tell me? Surely you know."

"Once I might have, but not this time," Aximand admitted. "This time, Lupercal has kept the matter to himself."

"Wonders never cease," Loken murmured, and with his brother he walked along the corridor, talking quietly and wondering what news the Warmaster had.

* * *

Louise stared at the vessel that came into view and almost had a heart attack at the sheer size of it. She had seen some picts of Astarte vessels, most notably before the current climate, when the artists on all the fleets had sent home images of the _Vengeful Spirit_ , the _Phalanx_ , and others too numerous to mention.

This one was not as ostentatious as other vessels, like the _Pride of the Emperor_ or the _Red Tear_ , but no less deadly for its grimness; she was trembling as she saw the massive array of weaponry that jutted from every pore. It was almost brass in colour except for the massive prow, which was green with a great skull at its head, lit by a subtle glow. Altogether, it hung ominously, and even compared to other warships, seemed to promise nothing but inevitable doom. She muttered something under her breath until she felt a reassuring hand on her shoulder.

"Relax, good lady," Amon gently said. "That is salvation; it is the _Endurance_ , the flagship of the Death Guard and of Mortarion himself."

Louise said nothing but just stared, her eyes almost bulging out of their sockets. As reassuring as Amon's words were meant to be, the very thought of coming aboard a ship full of Astartes - and not just any Astartes but the capital ship of the Death Lord himself - was enough to have her almost loosen her bowels in sheer terror. Tommy was not faring much better.

Amon took the vox bead and listened. His human friends (and they had become his friends, there was no question of that, for the journey they had undertaken could only have left them as either enemies or friends, even if his bond with them could never be like that he had possessed with his Custode brothers) had been rendered incapable of speaking by the sheer magnitude of what was approaching them, and so he took over the communications.

He listened as the docking supervisor told him to slow his engines and be prepared to be brought aboard. He acknowledged the order and picked up his helm. He did not know if it was proper to ever wear it again, for it symbolised a dead order, the original order he knew was gone. Still, he was about to face a Primarch, and one did not dress down when being received by a Prince. He watched as the gap between them and the _Endurance_ closed and finally they came into the landing bay. Louise managed to prevent herself from squealing in terror as she saw the Astartes that had arrived in the hanger bay, and Amon suspected they did not even notice her discomfort; but when she saw the giant that stood before them, she wet herself.

He was not the biggest-built of the Primarchs, not nearly the size of the Crimson King or the Lord of Drakes; in fact, from Amon's memories, he was not as big as the Wolf King or the Red Angel. But he still looked down on Amon, and it was impossible to deny his sheer presence, a presence of power that, unlike the other Primarchs Amon had met, felt eerily displaced. White and gold armour clasped a red cape that flowed behind him, in his hand was a large scythe that he knew was called _Silence_ , and a strange sidearm that was known as the _Lantern_ hung from his waist. Amon encouraged both Louise and Tommy to join him, and together, they all walked down the ramp and, following Amon's Lead, moved to one knee before the giant.

There was silence for a moment, and then the giant stepped forward, the sound of a hiss escaping his gorget. He cocked his head for a moment, his pale visage letting nothing slip.

"Welcome, Amon of the Custodes," Mortarion finally spoke.

Amon got to his feet and introduced the still abasing humans. Mortarion heard the weeping coming from the woman and did something that he surely never would have in public. He crouched down and held his hands out.

"Come, my dear; let my human serfs see to your comfort and your needs. You and your companion are safe now"

Finally Louise raised her dirty tear streaked face and smiled with relief, in recognition that she was safe. She took Mortarion's outstretched hand, although his hand engulfed hers and let him draw her to stand. He placed a fatherly arm round her shoulders and nodded at a female human officer and a male human who both stepped forward and took both Tommy and Louise away, leaving Amon alone with the Death Lord.

Mortarion was silent once more, and Amon made no comment that registered his own surprise. Mortarion was not known for his compassion, there were some that believed he never had any of it. If Amon had not seen this exchange with his own eyes, he might never have believed it himself.

With a motion of his head indicating that the Last Lion should follow the Death Lord, Mortarion dismissed his honour guard, and with only the Deathshroud at his side, led Amon to his private strategium. Amon knew what was coming and steeled himself for the Death Lord's questions. He passed Calas Typhon on route and stopped for a moment; he held the gaze of the First Captain of the Death Guard for several long moments and then continued with his direction. Calas smiled to himself and headed away towards the hangar bay, where a Stormbird waited to take him back to his vessel, the _Terminus Est_.

Amon was unnerved by the First Captain, as he rarely was by Astarte or Primarch, but certainly had been by Mortarion himself. He had a feeling that there was something wrong either with the First Captain or one of the Deathshroud, perhaps even more than a simple echo of their Primarch's power, and an echo of Malcador's words ghosted into his mind.

 _They have eyes and ears everywhere._

Amon wondered just how prophetic Malcador's words were and, once more, girded himself for whatever the Death Lord had in store for him.

* * *

Mortarion stood by his window and waited until he and the Custode were alone. Amon's companions had not looked like much, but he suspected they were stronger than they seemed, and in any case he knew how to deal with the broken. As he turned to face Amon, Amon realised how pale the Death Lord looked for the first time. Perhaps it was linked to how he felt the need to constantly breathe the poisonous air of Barbarus. Amon also wondered how Mortarion was dealing with the loss of his brother. Mortarion had few known friends, but he and the Night Haunter were close, and mayhaps he believed he could change Konrad's mind. Of course, those two Primarchs were more known for their ruthlessness than for their diplomatic skill. Amon did not know and, in effect, did not _want_ to know what could happen if those two fought; it was bad enough that one Primarch lay crippled and another was dead. He did not want to contemplate the dooms of more.

Yet what he was now forced to contemplate was even worse.

"Then, Amon, from the beginning, I would know everything that happened on Terra."

Mortarion sat down and listened as Amon told him the tale as the Custode had seen and heard it, from the Emperor's declaration of the new order to the escape upon the _Demeter_. He pulled a disgusted face when he was informed that Lorgar had ascended to power, and the title of 'Black Pope' made the Lord of Barbarus cringe.

He closed his eyes at the news of Constantin Valdor's death and the changes that had happened within the higher echelons of the Imperial Creed, including the death of Malcador. Amon told him that Malcador had put some message in his head, but he was unable to retrieve it, and suspected that a psyker might be needed to pull the information from his mind.

Mortarion cursed his luck. The very thought of dealing with psychic power was abhorrent to him, but still, whatever Malcador had put in Amon's head had to come out. He rose to his feet as Amon described the flight from Alyce Springs, including the arrival of the Black Templars.

"This is what, a new Astarte detachment we did not know about?"

"Sort of, my Lord," Amon said, keeping his gaze focused straight ahead. "The Emperor asked Dorn to form an independent Chapter from some of his own sons. They are led by Sigismund and are just as fanatical as the Word Bearers, although they are of Imperial Fist gene stock."

Mortarion remained silent, and Amon shuddered as the Death Lord's face became, somehow, even harder than it had been, as if shifting from cartilage to stone. What it meant, for the Emperor to be splitting Astarte forces from his Legions, neither knew, but neither thought it boded well.

Before Mortarion could ask any more of the Custode, he looked up, and another giant, armored in the colors of bronze and steel, came into the strategium - a giant that, unlike Mortarion, Amon had met before. His face was set into a hard, iron stare, and his dark eyes gave nothing away about any of his possible thoughts or feelings. In his hands was a giant hammer that had shattered many an enemy's walls and armaments, and from his head, cabling stretched in place of hair, polished in places but nowhere gleaming, for the being who wore it had no need for idle decoration. All this, Amon had seen before. Yet there was something different as well, not in the Primarch's unreadable face but in his posture - a loss of certainty and solidity, for one, not as if the iron within him had rusted but rather as if it had been sheared in half by some impossible force, yet also a glimmer of buried humanity, and even, perhaps, a spark of hope. Somehow, that only led the Primarch's severe grandeur to grow more oppressive.

For the second time in the last two hours, Amon moved to one knee, glad that this time his two human companions were not here, if their reaction to Mortarion was anything to go by, seeing this transhuman would have rendered them nearly catatonic.

"My Lord Perturabo," he respectfully spoke.

"Rise, Custode," Perturabo commanded, and Amon did as he was told.

Mortarion cast an apologetic look at Amon and told him to start his tale again. It did not matter how many times Amon told of his escape from Terra, though; the memories grew no worse but also no lighter, and the details left only an unreadable expression on both Primarchs' faces.

"We need a psyker here," Perturabo stated flatly. "One that can unlock whatever message Malcador left in Amon's mind."

"Magnus alone can do that, if any can." Mortarion paced the length of his room and stopped as a thought struck him. "Amon, I will to arrange for you to go to Kegara; but until then, perhaps you can aid me and Perturabo."

Amon straightened. To feel useful again was precisely what he wanted, to do something that felt normal for him and thus find something to hold to in this storm. It seemed that both Primarchs sensed that within the last true Custode.

"However I can help, my lords."

"Come now, Amon," Perturabo rumbled. "We know who your Primarch is. That makes us brothers of a fashion."

"Not quite, Lord," Amon gently corrected. "But I see your point."

Perturabo handed him and Mortarion some wine, notably taking none for himself. "Now, you were among the top performers at the Blood Games of the Custodes. What were they?"

He waited for the two giants to sit down and then sat before them. He explained the rules of the Blood Games, how they were told to go out into Terra as far away as they were told, and then to make their way back to the Imperial Palace, using whatever means they had at their disposal.

"And the goal?" Mortarion asked.

"The goal was to get as close to the Emperor as possible, as if we were going to assassinate him."

"If I recall, you were the one closest to reaching the Emperor." Perturabo had a genuine ring of respect in his voice.

No one could have blamed him for that, even if the Lord of Iron did not give praise easily. It had not been easy to get close to the Emperor even in times before this madness, for the Custodes were charged with his protection. For one of them to beat the odds and get close to the Emperor, even if it was a test of the security surrounding the master of mankind, was a feat in itself.

"I was finally caught by Con himself," Amon quietly spoke.

"Leng," Perturabo nodded. "I know it well"

Mortarion nodded a little and sat forward, his hands steeping. "Amon, we believe that the Emperor has a spy or spies within the highest ranks of our Legions. Now, we could use our own Astartes for this, but as much as we love our sons, we know that a Custode's mind-set is completely different to that of an Astarte, and that you are better capable of working alone."

"Yes, Lord," Amon nodded. "When we work in groups as well as when we are lone warriors, our individuality is more pronounced; we may see things that an Astarte cannot or will not, as an Astarte believes in the sanctity of brotherhood and loyalty. I mean no disrespect."

There was an uncomfortable pause. "None is taken," Perturabo eventually said. Mortarion seemed to be grimly smiling, perhaps because - as Amon now realized - quite aside from his words being well-known to the Primarchs, these two Primarchs specifically were less encouraging of brotherhood in their Legions than most.

After Perturabo spoke, the Death Lord sat back in his seat and nodded a little, more to himself than anything else, before making explicit what everyone already understood. "Help us, last of the lions; use your skills to unearth the man or men responsible for whatever information is getting back to Terra."

Amon bowed his head and got up. "I will be at your disposal, Lords. May I see my human co-travelers?"

Mortarion nodded and, moments later, the door opened to reveal Captain Nathaniel Garro, equerry to Mortarion and Battle-Captain of the vaunted Seventh Company.

"Nathaniel, would you show Custode Amon to his quarters, and then escort him to those of his... friends?"

"Yes, my lord."

Amon bowed his head again and walked out with Garro. Perturabo faced his brother with an arched eyebrow.

"Garro stayed?"

"You sound surprised, brother." Mortarion got to his feet and returned to staring out the window, before speaking again, some slight acid in his words. "None of my Terran-born sons returned to the side of the Emperor…and you?"

"Some did, and others I have yet to hear back from. Not all of them, but enough. I think we should let Horus know what is going on."

"Amon's intel, yes; as to the rest, not yet."

Perturabo rose to join his brother. "Why not?"

"Because I am not sure if the message can get there in time to be in the least relevant, even if I use the astropaths and the most secure transmissions. No brother, we will deal with this without Horus's help. When I am certain we have come to a conclusion satisfactory to us both, then I will tell Horus that we have Amon, for now," Mortarion paused and rubbed the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger, "the game is _ours_ to play."

"You realise, brother, that if there are traitors within our Legions, then their paymasters will know already of Amon's arrival," Perturabo warned.

"They cannot strike him under our protection, and attempting to will reveal them," Mortarion insisted before letting out a dark chuckle. "Which is but one more aspect of this situation's absurdity."

Perturabo smiled a rueful smile and nodded a little, for he too found it all absurd, if in a grim manner. There had never been any real love lost between the Astartes and the Custodes, for their methodology and ideals both differed, and their places in the Imperium were far enough apart to prevent sympathy. But Amon was useful - useful either if he was telling the truth, or if he was lying.

Which of those was true, Perturabo could no longer claim to know.

He was not truly surprised at the treachery among his sons. Yet he could not, now, listen to the advice of Berossus or Harkor or Forrix without wondering if they were actively sabotaging him. There were perhaps a dozen Astartes who could have been the leak, and there might have been more than one... how could he trust someone who had one chance in ten of being an agent of the enemy? And it was not as if he couldn't understand their choice. He had made the Iron Warriors into a weapon to prosecute the Great Crusade with; he did not need his Legion to love him, though he did demand respect. He had never planned for _this_ , and so, as the weapon was turned on one who had wielded it, it was no surprise that it shattered under the strain.

Sometimes he still wondered whether it was right, for it to shatter. Other days, he only wondered how he could have prevented it. But then, even the Custodes themselves had broken, even among the Luna Wolves there had been defectors.

It had all been so _clear_ , once.

"For the might of life," he muttered the oath, one which had been on his mind since that meeting in Isstvan's orbit. "Against the eternity of death."

Mortarion gave a wry smile and shook his head, revealing nothing of his own thoughts.

"It's an absurd situation," the Death Lord eventually said. "But I suppose it always was."

* * *

The Iron Warriors of the 123rd Grand Battalion under Serex Jasiera moved slowly across the plains. They had already sighted their target, a fortress built to hold the valley mouth. There had been skirmishes when they had arrived to bring the world to compliance, but nothing difficult for them and the Baranian 23rd. Now the prize lay before them, and Jasiera stood atop a cliff ridge to get a better view of the terrain surrounding it. His senior sergeant Korna Unseles stood beside him with Colonel Jochim Strandton of the 23rd.

Jasiera glanced at the map that the human was holding. He did not need such reminders: in the few moments since he had reached the ridge, he had already taken in what surrounded him. Whoever had built the fortress had marked it on the map that Strandton had acquired as Castello Quae, Bello Deorum: "Redoubt of the War Gods." Jasiera could understand that, for by the looks of the walls it would take gods to beat them down.

"Or a Titan," he mused to himself, for he knew that sufficiently advanced technology made a fair imitation of divinity. His sergeant and the Colonel glanced questionably at him, but he did not elaborate.

There was a line of trees to the left, behind which was a larger canopy of trees that designated a dense forest. Where he now stood with his companions was a high ridge that rose several meters into the air. Between the Forest and the rock face was a treacherous swamp; Jasiera had to admire the enemy's defence and the positioning of the fortress.

It stretched between the two cliff faces of the valley entrance, and by his estimation it was at least ten miles across. He allowed his vision to enlarge the sight and, like any Iron Warrior would have, he almost fell in love with the craftsmanship that had gone into its construction. The walls were several stories tall, stretching between four visible towers, each housing massive guns pointed outwards, ready to gun down any invader. There was a large gate carved into the stone, above which were smaller guns, positioned in such a way that they had a wide 360-degree view of what was before them. This was the redoubt's front face; aerial recon had been shot down before they got near enough to get any clean visuals, and high in the heavens, the _Iron Heart_ could not penetrate the clouds that seemed to localise around the fortress and block any other view of it.

Castelios Alpha was beginning to provide the Iron Warriors with a challenge.

Since news of the Emperor's ruling broke, through the events that followed, the Iron Warriors' role had shifted. For a long time they had increasingly been scattered throughout the galaxy as small garrisons, or sent to the most grinding campaigns while dubiously supplied. The resentment that led to had been entirely unsurprising. Horus knew of it, and now, without the need to obey orders from Terra, he no longer demanded the sons of Olympia to be sacrifices. True, the scattering had allowed many Captains and even Warsmiths to easily defect to the Imperium, but with its rescinding, the Iron Warriors were once more able to fight as Astartes should, and that above all ensured their firm loyalty to the Coalition. None of that, though, rescinded their position as siege specialists - especially given their chief enemies in that.

"That swamp is going to be a problem, sir," Unseles mused. "Not for us, but for the army and the tanks."

"There must be another way around." Strandton shook his head. "How else do they get supplies in?"

Jasiera was silent for a moment, taking in the colonel's surprisingly insightful words. While at first glance it seemed like the main supply road was directly ahead of them, a few additional glances and the fact that they hadn't been reacted to yet confirmed what Strandton had implied, namely that it was a decoy. Then, he turned to the two officers beside him. "Unseles, I want Scout Sergeant Saman and his squad to go with the Baranian Rangers; they are to scout the forest region and look for anything that would give an explanation to the colonel's valid question. Then I want five brothers, with a techmarine, to prop the trajectory of those guns and their distance... Kalos, Deresen, Touchou Ingis, Fenos and Techmarine Zelon should suffice." Kalos had recently been promoted to sergeant - this would test his mettle.

"Yes, sir."

"In the meantime, Colonel, I want your men and the brothers of Squads Heros, Justinian, Lorax and Hephastus to mark our trench lines as soon as the data comes in from Kalos and Squad Richeria."

"Yes, my lord. I have a suggestion, lord," Strandton ventured.

"Let's hear it," Jasiera told him.

"We could send an unmanned ship over the top, maybe find out what is blocking the aerial reconnaissance."

Both Iron Warriors glanced at each other, and from their expressions the colonel believed that his suggestion was going to be laughed at, if not worse. Instead the opposite happened. Jasiera nodded, more to himself.

"Not a bad idea, Colonel; even when it gets shot down, we will have some idea from the trajectory. Sergeant, have Adept Bisos ready a drone of some kind. I would rather a servitor be shot down then a battle-brother or member of the guard."

"Yes, sir!"

Strandon's chest puffed with pride at his commander's praise. He's heard little about the Fourth Legion from the Army grapevine, save for some vague horror stories. Thus far, they seemed exaggerated, though he was not one to relax his guard too soon. Even if their own Astartes didn't get his men killed, the enemy certainly could.

Both men saluted and moved down to join their respective camps. Jasiera folded his arms across his powerful chest; he had not met a fortress yet that he had not brought down. This would be a great battle, though, and this would be a fortress that would challenge him, that was certain.

* * *

Loken stood in the private strategium alongside his Mournival brothers. Horus had not yet arrived; he had been a touch reclusive since the death of the Khan, and his argument with the Ultimate Warrior had played on his mind. None of them knew what had occurred, but Gulliman had been the last of the Primarchs to leave, and something had occurred between them to have Horus fuming for days on end.

Abaddon had privately expressed his opinion to his brothers and to Equerry Maloghurst that, perhaps, the father of the Ultramarines was preparing to make his empire a second one to rival that forged by the Great crusade, in case the war went the way of the Emperor. All of them dreaded, at least in private, that this would occur. With half the Primarchs defecting to the Emperor's new stance, with the majority of the Terran-born sons of the Legions behind Horus returning to their grandfather's side, with - above all - the results of Prospero and Chogoris... Neither of those battles was a tactical defeat, perhaps, but it was impossible not to feel that the war was tilting the enemy's way. Nevertheless, the last thing Horus wanted was to have a second empire, with a Primarch at its head. There was no telling what sort of confusion that might lead to. In truth, he only wanted them to concentrate on the matter at hand, on saving the Great Crusade and mankind both from an Emperor gone mad.

Already, there was a vast programme of accelerated induction into the full ranks for Scouts throughout the Coalition's Legions, and with the realisation that psykers might be used again in the Legions of the Emperor, the Coalition was unofficially imitating them. Many of the brothers who had returned to the ranks were now quietly being asked to don their old Librarian uniforms once more. Even Torgaddon was not his usual jokey self, and Loken found that he actually missed his friend's jovial banter, even if at times it seemed inappropriate.

Before he could gather the energy to ask if anyone knew what was going on, though, the doors opened and the Warmaster swept into the room. The Mournival were about to go down to one knee when Horus waved it aside with a deep scowl. His favoured sons need not show such abasement to him; anyone else, he supposed, but not them, never them. He needed no show of respect from them, for he knew without a shred of doubt that he already had that.

Loken noticed that his father's armour, too, held a large black-and-silver band around the forearm and inside; on it, in delicate Chogoric script, was the name of the Great Khan.

"Do you remember what the Emperor offered to me at my investiture as Warmaster?" Horus abruptly asked.

They all nodded; they knew it well, as did nearly the entire Legion. To recognise his authority as the supreme commander of the Emperor's forces, the Emperor felt that the Sixteenth Legion might be renamed to emphasize Horus's new position.

"As I recall, father," Aximand said, "you turned him down, on the grounds that it would sow resentment within the other Legions."

Horus nodded and handed the four brothers goblets of wine. He knew full well that Abaddon and Torgaddon were drinkers of the harsh Chthonian ale that, to others outside the Legion, was compared unfavourably to paint stripper in the back of their throats (the exception being the sons of Russ, who growled about its flavor rather than its concentration). But this was not a moment that called for ale.

"With recent events, and with the news of some of my sons returning to the side of the Emperor - " none of them failed to notice that, since Prospero and Chogoris, Horus had stopped calling him father - "we have to face the truth. We are in a state of total war against those who until recently we called our brothers. The Sol System is under control of the Emperor; and Luna, in particular, is lost. In recognition of the new conflict we face, I've decided to rename the Sixteenth. I've already informed our allies of the fact, and now I am telling you, my Mournival, so that you can inform the Legion."

"You're really going to do it?" Torgaddon frowned a little.

"Hubris be damned, Tarik. Even as the Emperor and the Terran bureaucracy subverted my authority as Warmaster at every turn, I tried to quietly play my role, and look where that got us. From this day forth, let the Luna Wolves be those companies that left our cause for the mad god. As to the true Sixteenth Legion - let us be the Sons of Horus." His eyes burned brightly with the knowledge that he was right, the aura of command roiling around him. "I am the Warmaster! I _must_ continue the Great Crusade and take back the Imperium of Man. And those that oppose that will face not only you and the rest of the Legion. They will face the full might of ten Legions, of the Adeptus Mechanicus, of those thousands of Imperial Army regiments that fight with us. Of the Imperial Truth that has propelled us all into the galaxy for two centuries. I do not ask them all to fight in my name - that philosophy is what caused this mess - but you are my sons, and I will _never_ let that be forgotten."

There was a pause for several moments, the Mournival speechless save for an unconscious salute, before Maloghurst cleared his throat and all looked at the equerry. "I have informed the Legion, sire, or - should I say - you have."

Horus frowned a little, then heard the roar shake the _Vengeful Spirit_ , from the mighty Astartes to the below-decks crew.  
 **  
"Lupercal! Lupercal! Lupercal!"**

Horus's eyes cooled slightly. Of course Mal had transmitted with a delay, but Loken still suspected his Primarch would have words with his equerry yet. But that was a worry for a later time. "I'm retaining the white armour, but with sea-green trim in place of black, with the Eye of Terra for our symbol. We are the same Legion at the core... but times have changed."

The Mournival realised that, with the escalation of this past year, Horus had finally accepted that this was not a perkande flash. It was a rising helix of war that could no longer be stopped, except perhaps by victory.

But if it was a war that the Emperor wanted, he would find that Warmaster was more than just a title he had granted.

"I need to make sure that our Legions are loyal to the cause in full." As the meeting grew calmer, and Maloghurst left the room with a nod to his Primarch, Horus moved to sit behind his desk and motioned his sons to sit as well. "I have received word from Mortarion that Amon Tauromachian of the Custodes not only escaped Terra, but brings word of it. It's even worse than what I've just... announced. The world is well and truly in the throes of this blasted cult of the Emperor, and Constantin Valdor and Malcador are dead in fighting it."

Horus paused for a moment, his grief at the Constantin's loss obvious; Valdor was a companion to the young Horus when he was training on Terra with his father, a lifetime ago. Malcador held the Warmaster's respect, if only a tense one, and his loss was equally damning.

"What did Amon say?" Abaddon asked quietly.

All the Mournival had a deep respect for the Captain-General of the Custodian Guard. The news of his demise and that of the Sigillite meant that there was now no one who would oppose the Emperor's new way left on Terra. Still, there was comfort, if cold, in that he had fallen fighting against the Emperor and not for him.

"Lorgar is now the Black Pope." Horus saw the disgusted looks that crossed his sons' faces at the title, and had to agree with them. He'd thought better of Aurelian. "At the moment, Amon believes he is acting Regent, but Amon suspects that will go to Dorn when the time comes. The Imperial Fists have split off an independent force. Sigismund is the leader of a Chapter of fanatics who call themselves the Black Templars. Amon and two Terran humans were the only survivor' from a town called Alyce Springs; the rest of its inhabitants were killed, except the children, who were taken. He heard that the boys would supposedly be given to the Legions or Custodes, and the girls would be trained as part of a priestly sisterhood devoted to the Emperor."

"This just gets worse." Torgaddon ran a hand down his face.

Loken, for his part, was wondering since when becoming Astarte was seen as a punishment. Somehow, he doubted the Emperor was choosing rebels' children for the Legions just to ensure they had a place to live.

Horus made his hands into a steeple and his eyes darkened. "Mortarion and Perturabo also believe that there is someone within the uppermost ranks of their Legions who is reporting back to Terra, based on the last few worlds they fought on. From my understanding, they have that controlled. However, having spoken to my brothers, we must ensure the same thing does not happen to us."

"What of the Alpha Legion?" Loken asked. "They are supreme in secrecy and infiltration."

"Garvi is right," Abaddon said, before disagreeing. "What if they are the spies? They never answer anything without riddles, and you never know when one of them or several of them are feigning being your brothers." Sixty-Three Nineteen had evidently frustrated the First Captain more than Loken had thought.

"Easy enough to solve." Aximand swept his gaze across the room. "We know that the Alpha Legion are with us but, as you so rightly say, Ezekyle, we cannot know if they have another agenda. Let the company captains across the fleets to run a genetic test. The Alphas can infiltrate well, but they cannot fool a genetic scan. Some will find a way to sneak past it, but if there's a major campaign, enough will show up."

Horus nodded in agreement. "Have all Legionnaires report to the Apothecaries for a Legionwide fitness test before the new campaign. But I do not need my sons to start thinking they are mistrusted, especially now. We will keep all this between us. Should anything turn up, then we will deal with it accordingly."

"What about Mortarion and Perturabo?" Loken asked.

"They will conduct their affairs as they see fit, and I would hope that they keep me informed. For now, we are cleaning house, and by the Cavern Seas, I hope we're worrying over nothing. Even if I doubt it."

The Mournival rose to their feet and bowed their heads. "Is there anything else, lord?" Abaddon asked.

"Find me a world that needs our help, Ezekyle, a world that we can bring under our banner. I need to feel like I am doing something useful."

"Yes, Lord."

The Mournival left their father to his thoughts and his equerry, though the latter was somewhat surprised when Horus did not chide him over the earlier stunt (though then again, he might well have known). Maloghurst was about to leave when Horus suddenly spoke up.

"Tell me, Mal, have you ever seen Alpharius and Omegon in the same room as each other?"

"The commander of the Efreet Squad? Rarely, but I believe there has been one or two occasions. Though it could well have been that this was not the real Omegon."

"That's not what I meant. All the Astartes of the Alpha Legion are alike, and sometimes you do not really know who you're talking to; but they are also good enough to leave false trails. However, have you noticed how similar Alpharius and Omegon are? The Twentieth would have taken more care if Omegon was merely a front for their Primarch to hide among his sons."

Malgohurst cocked his head a little, feeling like he would get a headache for the first time in years at this rate. "What are you saying, lord?"

"I am saying that perhaps there are some secrets about the Alpha Legion that we do not have the context to realise are secrets. I think I will arrange to meet them both, and then, at least, I will know whether there is a riddle in there or not."

Horus fell silent and the equerry left his father to his solitude, perplexed by the Warmaster's words.


	3. Chapter Two

Amon brushed a strand of hair from Louise's brow. It was an oddly human thing for him to do, for one who had given up much of his humanity to become a Custode many decades ago. There had been someone once, back when he was human, though he could not recall her name, for so many memories of being a Custode had overtaken what little memories he had earned as a human. All he could remember was that he did care about this memory, that she had been his first love and in effect his last. But he had chosen duty to the Imperium, and a life in the Custode Guard over all human attachments.

Still, he felt that he had become close to the two surviving members of the little band of rebels. Tommy had been checked over and had been released from the care of the Imperial Army infirmary. Amon had seen him earlier and had been relieved to discover that, whilst the sight of so many Astartes had sent the hackles on his neck standing up, the young man did not hold any grudges against them. Amon suspected that the unusual empathy shown by Mortarion, and perhaps more importantly, the fact the human had been in the presence of a Primarch, had soothed the man's fears that all of the Emperor's sons had joined his dark path.

Tommy had nigh-immediately joined the 231st Expeditionary Fleet and the Imperial Army of Kalous under the command of General Isaiah Keogh, who ultimately answered to Mortarion. Amon had the feeling that the young private would go far. As to Louise, she had collapsed in the infirmary, the nurse informing the hovering Custode that it was exhaustion mixed with shock.

He had remained beside Louise since. His presence had unnerved some of the Humans there, who had found it hard to reconcile that this giant, though a Custode, was still loyal to the old Imperial Truth. He did not care; all he cared about was repaying his debt by being there for her, as she had been there for him, her and her friends, who had all risked their lives to get him off Terra and to the loyalist forces. He did not want to think what would have happened if it had been Dorn or Aurelian that had picked them up.

 **++Captain Tauromachian Leng, we are ready for you. Battle-Captain Garro will join you in the Primarch's sanctum.++**

Amon started at the use of his name; it had been so long since he had heard it put like that he had almost forgotten what it sounded like. Most people just called him Amon. Leng was a relatively new addition to his already extensive name roll. He wished now that he had completed his mission, bringing it to an end so that maybe, just maybe, this madness would never have been born. And the title of Captain... what worth did it retain now, when he was left alone?

 **++Who is this?++** He asked. He was not familiar with the names of all the Astartes here. It would not take him long to memorise them, but still it was unnerving to think that his reputation preceded him.

 **++I am Sergeant Kellion, sir. The Primarch sends his respects and wishes you to forgive his intrusion upon your private contemplations, but he requests your presence.++**

Amon sighed a little. Once upon a time it was unheard-of for a Custode and a Primarch to speak of respect. If he was honest, the only one he seemed to have respect from was Rogal Dorn, but then he was the Primarch who spent the most of his time on Terra, even before the madness that was taking place.

 _How things have changed,_ he thought to himself once again. The rifts that had arisen over countless victories were being at least papered over in days of desperation.

 **++Tell Lord Mortarion I will be with him and Battle-Captain Garro shortly.++**

 **++Yes, Sir.++**

Amon gazed once more at the sleeping woman, and leaning over, he kissed her forehead and walked away, leaving the nurse in attendance with a shocked expression on her face.

* * *

From the walls of the _Castello Quae, Bello Deorum_ other eyes watched the Iron Warriors begin that which they were famous throughout the Imperium for. There were no better besiegers than the sons of Perturabo, everyone knew that, even Dorn and his sons. It was often wondered if Perturabo and Dorn were not so dissimilar, though one was known as the master of fortress building, and the other the master of fortress breaking. Then again, a fortress built by the Comrade and his sons was could be a work of art itself, and Dorn knew his siegecraft well.

The humans that stood along the walls with their weapons resting on the battlements had no true understanding of what they were up against. If this was a normal battle, then they would either surrender or die within a week or two. The Iron Warriors only ever gave one chance to surrender, and sometimes, it was better to do that then be besieged by the children of Olympia.

How fortunate, then, that he had been given the task of sending the message to Perturabo that he had chosen the wrong side. Had it not been for the information received from the Pope's informant within the forces of the renegades, he might not have had this opportunity to test his mettle against a cousin Legion. The human dressed in the uniform of a Captain looked nervously up at the black-clad warrior beside him.

"My Lord, what are your orders?" he asked, barely keeping the tremor from his voice.

 **"Wait,"** The Astartes commanded. **"When I give the signal, they will have the surprise of their lives. Do not worry, Captain Hungstrad, your men and women fight for the glory of the Emperor. My men and I shall deal with the Iron Warriors; you just make sure your guns keep their Army auxiliaries at bay."**

"Yes my Lord, for the Emperor."

 **"Indeed,"** The Astartes closed his eyes, **"and for the Primarch."**

"The Mighty Lion is with us this day, I can feel it, my lord."

 **"My father is here through me, for the First Legion is with you."**

Captain Alejandro Ismailia of the Dark Angels 93rd Company smiled to himself. He would help redeem the honour of the Dark Angels in the eyes of the almighty Emperor. What Perturabo had done to his father, so let the son do to his cousins.

* * *

Every screen and panel of the mighty vessel's bridge was shrouded in an eerie red glow. The human crew of this feared vessel of the Emperor's forces said little, unless it was in the course of their duties. The true commander of this ship, though, was not much more garrulous; stood behind the Admiral, his hulking terminator armour doing little to hide his true bulk. The servos whined a little as he moved, and a slight hiss from his vox-grill showed his irritation at the length of time he had been kept waiting.

It had been hours. He would have thought that with the news he had, and despite the communication lapses, he would have got an answer; he was after all not just a spy, but a First Captain. That demanded respect. Instead, the more he waited, the more irritated he got. That bastard Erebus had better be doing something really important to warrant this behaviour. Erebus may have held the position of First Chaplain of the Word Bearers, and count Typhon as a friend, but he was not a First Captain.

Calas Typhon was about to return to his strategium when, with a voice more nervous than usual, the vox officer informed him that there was a face-to-face message coming through for him and motioned to the holo-stand. With a grunt, Typhon acknowledged his Vox officer and moved to stand before the imager. It really was a remarkable piece of technology; one could talk to another Astarte or Primarch as if they were in the room with them, and not half the galaxy away. Made possible by the Warpcraft that Mortarion had risen in rebellion against.

Hardly the most profound use thereof, merely scraps from the table of true sorcery - but useful nonetheless.

He removed his helm and clipped it to his belt, revealing a handsome man wearing a short beard, one with the blood of the Warlords that ruled Barbarus before the coming of Mortarion in his veins. Yes, he would tell the upstart Chaplain exactly what he thought of him. He had done everything that was expected and ordered.

The image shimmered at first, and the other person's image was not all that clear. Typhon was about to start his admonishment when suddenly the wind vanished from his sails. He swallowed several times and adjusted his stance to one of respect, unlike the one of annoyance he had been conveying.

"Hello Calas; I believe you have some very interesting news for me. Let me first say that your work keeping us informed of the Renegades and other heretics is greatly appreciated. I know that your own patron is very pleased with your actions thus far. Now, my brave and beloved nephew, tell me all you have to tell me, and leave nothing out."

Lorgar Aurelian, lord of the Word Bearers and Black Pope of the Imperium, sat back in his command throne. His smile remained warm and genuine as he listened to Typhon's report. He listened as the Death Guard's First Captain told him of the past months' events, detailing the death of the Khan and the arrival of Amon Tauromachian. A slight fumble of his brow revealed the Primarch's visible annoyance at the latter news, but still he listened.

"Yes, and the Dark Angels are ready to bombard the Iron Legion on Castelios," he finally spoke when Typhon had finished, before returning to broader scopes. "How many of your brothers stand ready to join the Emperor, Calas?"

"Only my company and the Second Company, my lord," Typhus replied, as if that wasn't much. As if everyone in both companies would follow him without hesitation.

Lorgar nodded; he knew it was a matter of time before Mortarion and, indeed, Perturabo would discover the traitor in the ranks. It was time for Calas to bring himself to the seat of power.

"Then speak to your brother-captain and make your way to Terra. You will be Dusk Raiders once more."

"Your will be done, my lord."

The image faded and Lorgar turned to Erebus, who emerged from the shadows behind his throne. He arched an eyebrow and cocked his head as Bal Sangos and Argel Tal joined him, forming an inner conclave.

"You do not trust him, Erebus." Lorgar was not asking.

"He is of the old warlord clans that were decimated after Mort – I mean, Lord Mortarion - rose to power." Erebus corrected himself quickly; despite the factions, Lorgar was still a stickler for protocol regarding his brothers. "And I have known him for a long time. He is loyal to the cause, but I suspect he will have his own agenda, Father."

Lorgar nodded. "As ever, my dark bishop, your insight serves you well. Still, he is marked for another, and so his fate is the Grandfather's business, not ours. I am more concerned at Amon reaching Mortarion and Perturabo." He did not say why, and his sons knew not to wonder.

"What are your orders, Father?" Sangos asked.

"The Emperor…."

"Beloved by all," his sons intoned.

"Indeed. He would say to let it fall as it will. At the moment, though, he is tending to Vulkan and I do not wish to disturb him whilst my brother lays gravely wounded."

None of them failed to notice the grief, even guilt, laced within their Primarch's words. He had felt responsible, as he had provided the suggestion of Vulkan going to broker terms with the Khan. Not even Lorgar knew the events that would lead to the death of a Primarch. He had mourned the death of the Khan, for though they knew each other poorly he was after all his brother, just as he had grieved for the Crimson King, whom even now, despite their differing sides, Lorgar still thought fondly about.

"Let Grandfather Nurgle write the tale of Typhon and his allies. Ensure only that Mortarion and Perturabo believe that it was all his own doing, letting nothing be found that will lead back to the Emperor."

Sangos chuckled a little. "Anyone would think we were Alpha Legion."

"Sometimes, brother," Argel Tal spoke, "we have to act like others to get our job done."

Lorgar let them have their banter. "As long as it is done, my sons. I want none to believe that Typhon and his co-conspirators acted under our orders."

"It shall be done, Father." Erebus bowed his head, Sangos and Tal likewise offered their respects, and all three left their father to his thoughts.

* * *

The scouts of the Iron Warriors moved silently. They were hoping not only to make their Sergeant proud in the eyes of the Lord of Iron, but also that this would be the mission where they would earn their black carapaces, taking the last step to becoming fully-fledged battle-brothers. But both knew that Perturabo's favour was fickle, and that the price for failure was high in the Fourth Legion, and higher on the battlefield.

For them it had been a long hard road. Even before they had started this assignment, scouting out terrain and bastions for weakness and then returning to aid the battle-brothers in the building of the siegeworks under the watchful eyes of the experienced Warsmith, two of the scouts had already, unbeknown to them, been earmarked for First Captain Forrix's company. They were the two who now moved silently forward. Scout-Brother Jeranu and Scout-Brother Yves were a little ahead of their squad, but with them were two humans, a woman by the name of Coronus and a man, or rather youth, perhaps nineteen Terran years at a push, called Terax.

It had grated on the two Scout-Brothers that they had to have two humans with them, as they thought it would slow them down. But any loss in speed was more than made up by gains in perception. Both Coronus and Terax showed exactly why it was that their Sergeant had chosen them to join the Iron Warrior scouts. Had circumstances been different, then perhaps Terax would have made an excellent addition to the Iron Warriors' brotherhood. As it was, he seemed to complement the dour-faced Coronus, of whom Yves and Jeranu both had a fledging thought that she had Olympian blood in her veins.

When they rested within view of the Bastion, but still some distance from it, Jeranu took the bull by the horns and asked Coronus where she hailed from. The woman's face was painted – no, not painted, but permanently tattooed with camouflage markings that seemed to change with the environment she was in. Terax was the same, and yet his tattoos were not as pronounced as Coronus', perhaps because she was higher-ranked.

"I come from Barania, sir," she replied. She did not call him Lord, but then he was not yet a full battle-brother so she really did not need to. Nevertheless, she did not look him in the eyes, averting them to keep full attention on the bastion.

"All your family?" he persisted.

"No, sir, my grandsire was from Olympia; he was a trader and came to stay on Barania."

Jeranu shot his brother a triumphant look and folded his arms across his chest.

"So," Yves said, sitting down beside them but making sure not to take his eyes off the fortress. "What is with the face markings?"

Terax turned to face the scout. "When we were young, we were told that we will be taken from our families and trained in the martial elements. Those of us that showed an aptitude for hunting - scouting the terrain for the seasonal migrations, knowing the passage of the winds so that we are not caught in the scent of the Xeriag we hunt, and the like - we were taken to a scoutmaster, and there we were trained." He motioned to the silent Coronus. "Freada there is the youngest senior scout of her intake; she has a natural ability, which is why her tattoos are so... intricate."

"So why is it that they change to match the territory?" Yves asked, putting the knowledge into the back of his head for later recall, should he ever need it.

"I do not know, sir; it is a process with special inks that goes back thousands of cycles." Terax shrugged and then fell silent as Coronus raised her hand a little. Immediately, the two Scouts threw their eyes in the direction Coronus had pointed, the enhanced vision of the Astartes working in harmony with their scout armor's sensors.

A small band of perhaps twenty men were patrolling the parapet, but it was not the humans that concerned the party, in particular the two Iron Warrior Scout Brothers. It was the two black-armoured Scouts that moved with them.

Yves narrowed his eyes a little. Ever since the slaughter of the Iron Warriors' 54th at the Elysian Bastion, the truth from the mighty Wolf King and the mourned Great Khan that the Dark Angels had sided with the accursed Dark Eldar scum had made anything to do with the sons of Caliban personal, a grudge only eclipsed by the one against the Fists.

He motioned to his companions and they moved away, out of the potential line of sight of the enemy to slightly higher and yet camouflaged ground. They had their stealth cloaks, but he need not have worried about the humans: they were already invisible to the naked eye. His respect for them went up a notch or two more. They watched the patrol route. As soon as the enemy moved away, Yves nodded at Jeranu, who immediately contacted the sergeant.

After a moment, he was there. "We wait here until we are given further instructions. The Warsmith will want to know how many we see, as well as where and what the patrol routes are."

The four scouts settled in for the duration. It was going to be a long night.

* * *

Deep under the Himalaysian peaks, one man worked tirelessly without sleep or food. Those that worked with him, monitoring machines and giving him whatever he required when he required it, knew better than to tell him to rest. The life-pod was suspended high above those mortals, so that only the golden-armoured figure stood before it. Inside the naked, ebony-skinned warrior slept as the magics that had first created him sought to heal him from the injuries he had sustained at the hands of his now dead brother.

They turned as another giant, armored in gold, walked into the room; at a look from the new Regent of Terra, they left him alone with his father. Rogal Dorn moved to one knee and waited for his father to acknowledge him.

"I did not want this, Rogal," the Emperor softly spoke. "I did not want brother killing brother; it is like… history repeating itself over again."

Dorn assumed his father referred to human nature during war and did not hear or suspect the deeper meaning behind his father's words. He moved fluently to his feet and joined his father's side, casting a respectful gaze at his silent brother.

"We have had more arrivals from the other Legions, Father, who have left their Primarchs to fight under you. Even Ultramarines."

The Emperor arched an eyebrow. Of all the sons of Terra who had joined their gene-fathers, the last sons he expected to return were the Terran-born Ultramarines. Yet it was good, reassurance that he was on the correct path.

Dorn cleared his throat and shifted a little, asking the question that the Emperor's musings about Jaghatai had made necessary. "Were Malcador's and Valdor's deaths absolutely unavoidable, father?"

The Emperor lowered his head a little, and for a moment Rogal thought that he was not going to answer him. Since his return from Alyce Springs he had said little. Valdor had been given a warrior's funeral, but of Malcador there was nothing left. It was as if the Emperor had wanted him obliterated from history. Had it been anyone else, he might even have succeeded, but not with Malcador. The Sigilite's memory still seemed to hang over the palace, like a wandering spectre.

"They made their choices, Rogal." That was all the Emperor said, and Dorn was wise enough not to press the issue.

The Emperor's Praetorian changed the subject and rested his hand against Vulkan's life-pod. It seemed unreal that his quietly resilient brother should be left unconscious and floating in life-preserving fluid; whatever Jaghatai had hit him with had done enough damage to lay a Primarch low.

"Will he recover?"

"I believe he will in body," the Emperor said, not mentioning that he could be absolutely certain of that much, given the Lord of Drakes' enhanced healing. In truth, left alone, Vulkan would already have recovered, physically. But that was not the issue. "I am not so sure about his mind." The Emperor sighed. "Every now and then his EEG spikes and his body jerks, almost as if he is reliving his battle with Jaghatai."

"Perhaps it will haunt him forever. You are aware that the Scars will never forgive the Salamanders for the death of their father. They have long memories and their hunts can last for centuries."

Centuries, yes. Perhaps they could last for millennia, if the Legion had not been too young for that. The Emperor smiled, a little sadly. "It is the way it is, Rogal. Where once they were allies, they are now enemies, and the only ways to end that hunt will be peace or extermination. It saddens me that they side with Horus, and it saddens me even more that Horus does not see the path as clearly as you or your brothers."

"It saddens me too, father."

The Emperor looked on his son and rested a fatherly hand on his shoulder. "I know that you and Horus are close. Maybe he will see sense, eventually. I suspect he is... _frustrated_... that I did not confide in him first. He always did think that I should tell him everything."

Dorn shrugged a little. When the Emperor had named him Warmaster, there were those amongst their brothers who saw it as folly, who believed that they were worthier of the accolade. The Lion and Angron were amongst those mutterings, He supposed it was only natural that Horus felt that, as the First amongst his brothers, he should be privy to the Emperors' thoughts and actions. He was not the oldest - that was Sanguinius or the Lion, depending on definition - but he was the only one who had been raised alongside the Emperor, having been found as an infant on Cthonia.

"Heal soon, brother," Dorn whispered to the life pod. "Your sons await your return, as do your brothers."

* * *

"Dark Angels, here?" Jasiera returned to looking at the bastion before him, his work crews working hard to meet his and his brother's exacting commands.

When the report from the scout team had come in via their sergeant, he had not wanted to believe it, but he was an Iron Warrior, and used to facing unfortunate truths head-on. Now, it seemed that the Dark Angels were looking to exact a measure of revenge against the Iron Warriors for the Hansana Campaign, to say nothing about the fate of the 54th Grand Battalion.

He spat on the ground in disgust, the acid boiling the sand beneath his feet and hissing through to the bedrock. He should have known that whatever the Comrade ordered his sons, the accursed First would be there to thwart it. He had always found the Dark Angels too secretive and paranoid for their own good, and they had the cheek to accuse the Fourth of paranoia themselves. At least his father did not create enemies where there had been allies, mainly because up until recent events, the Iron Warriors tended to keep to themselves.

Now everything had changed, and Jasiera, despite himself, was slightly glad of it. Suddenly they were no longer just garrison troops; they were doing what they were all wrought to do, not just breaking and building bastions, but warring as Astartes should. Horus, the mighty Warmaster, had unleashed their true potential. And Perturabo, too, seemed more animated, as if the fervor of his sons had spread upwards to him. For the first time in a long while, he truly seemed to care about his cause. In a sense that was unsurprising. The Emperor's embrace of religion was a timely reminder of exactly what the Iron Warriors had always been fighting against - lies and strife and irrational darkness. It had all become so clear, for the first time in an age.

Jasiera was slightly glad of it. Slightly, because the main part of him did not wish to believe this madness, no more than any of his brothers did. He wanted to imagine that the Dark Angels were there to help them... but he knew they were not.

He was an Iron Warrior. He would face both the truth and the enemy head-on.

Which did not mean he would be stupid about it. Castello Quae, Bello Deorum did not need Astarte defenders against the vast majority of assaults. If the First Legion was here, it was because they knew that Horus's Coalition would be launching an Astarte-assisted assault. How, then, did they know it? Those of the Iron Warriors that could not reconcile their oaths to the Primarch with their oaths to the Emperor... they were long gone. He preferred not to believe that an Astarte would do such a thing. But someone, somewhere, certainly had.

But that would remain a private matter. Standing before the bastion, he opened his overall vox channel. **++Brothers of Iron, brothers and sisters of the Imperial Army, it would seem that our enemy has unwanted allies. Brothers and sisters of the honoured Baranian forces, concentrate your attack on the humans. Brothers of Iron, we are to face the Dark Angels. Iron within, Iron without….Iron within, Iron without...Iron within - ++**

"IRON WITHOUT!"

The shout came back not just from his brothers but, much to the amazement of the Warsmith, from the humans too. These brave mortals had only recently joined the Fourth as auxiliaries. He had forsaken his humanity to become a transhuman, a son of Perturabo, long ago, but that did not mean he did not understand the need for human allies in war. Astartes could fulfill almost any military role, but there had never been and would never be enough of them to do that. Yet while the Iron Warriors always relied on the Imperial Army, indeed more than most Legions due to their so often being spread thin, their relations with those units were not always the best. To hear the Baranian 23rd take up the Iron Warriors chant now, well, it made him beam with pride.

 **++We start at dawn; there will be no surrender terms given, not now that we know their allies. ++** He closed the vox and glanced at his sergeant. "Prenara, it is time to teach the bastard sons of a bastard Primarch not to interfere in Iron Warrior business."

The Sergeant bowed his head and handed him the report from the few drones that had survived long enough to give details. Jasiera read the report and he nodded to himself. From the gaps between the data points, he could tell that the enemy most likely had a full company of Dark Angels. Their bikes would remain useless due to the bog that separated the fields of war, but that did not mean they had no other way of attack and defence, such as assault squads, jetbikes, and Dreadnoughts.

"Are our entombed brothers awake?" he asked.

"Aye, my lord." Prenara nodded. "Venerable brothers Isolder, Lenorida and Casillo are awake. Isolder has asked to speak with you"

Jasiera nodded and, without a word, made his way to where the Dreadnoughts were housed. As Warsmith he held utmost authority, but when the ancient Isolder, a warrior who had won more battles than any in his company, called... well, the revered former Warsmith of his company did not summon often, but it was a fool who ignored those summons.

* * *

Castello Quae, Bello Deorum was for the most part on alert. Every wall was manned, every gun placement was waiting, and every spirit within, machine or otherwise, was ready to unleash hell on the invaders. Unsurprisingly, the tension in the air was thick and heavy. Thick and heavy for the humans, that is, for deep within the bastion's interior the Dark Angels waited. They were in a large circle, heads bowed, each of them standing on one knee. Before them stood their Chaplain Redemptor Kerasa. He had a large book in his left hand and was reading from it. His crozius, the symbol of his office, glowed ever so slightly. Before the Emperor's apotheosis he was expected to keep the mental well-being of his brothers under his care, but now it was more than that. Now, he catered to their spiritual needs as well as their battle ardour.

Chosen by the Lion himself, Kerasa was one of the last of the original Order to be raised into the ranks of the Astartes. As a knight, he had shown an uncanny ability to inspire his brother-knights in battle despite his youth. Now, for the first time, he stood reading from the Book of Faith, a work of the Black Pope and a keystone for those trained in the new faith. It was a strange fit still, but he was dedicated to serving the Lion and the Emperor, and this remained a lesser shift than his entry into the First Legion.

After completing the reading, he said words of his own, as he had for many years. "Brothers, we are the sons of the Lion and grandsons of the Emperor. Out there are the sons of our heretic uncle Perturabo; the heretics have seen fit to defile a world of the Emperor, to bring it to the darkness of unbelief, and this, my brothers, this we cannot allow!" His voice raised a little as he got into the swing of his speech. "We are the mighty First Legion. The wolves - nay, the heretical dogs - that once called themselves protectors of mankind, with their bastard alpha, dared to spurn the aid of our most beloved sire. They dared to eject our father and brothers from a traitor's haven. They dare to set themselves above the laws of our most beloved grandsire... and today we are fortunate, for it falls to us, the sons of the Lion, the First Primarch, to show these reprobates how they will suffer for their crimes against the Imperial Faith!"

He walked around the room, anointing his brothers and speaking words of the ancient Order as well as blessings of the Emperor and the strength of the Lion within them. Once the preparations had been completed he deferred to the Captain.

"Let us take the fight to the sons of Perturabo," Ismailia glared, "and bring glory to the Lion."

"For the Lion!" the battle-brothers chorused, and the Dark Angels made their way to the surface.

* * *

Amon found Mortarion with Garro. Perturabo was still accompanying him, but his First Captain Forrix had now joined them as well, though he remained for the most part silent.

In the time it took him to get from the infirmary to the Primarch's sanctum, a sense of urgency seemed to have taken hold of him. If there was a spy in the "rebels"' ranks, it would be someone of high enough rank to have access to such battle plans.

"How do you propose we work round this, Captain?" Forrix asked.

Amon had never met Forrix, but his reputation was well known. He was an Iron Warrior without peer, with phenomenal organizational skills, and Amon supposed that other Astartes and human field officers could learn from his example. He was a siege warfare expert second only to his father, and indeed it had been rumoured that Forrix planned much jointly with the Comrade as his fresh eyes and insight were lauded, though knowing Perturabo, Amon doubted that. Forrix's fame was more in leadership and logistics than in single combat, but he would not be First Captain without being skilled with a bolter, either.

And the question preying on Amon's mind was whether he was the traitor.

"All I can say for certain is that Erebus…"

"Curse that whoreson," Garro murmured, then glanced around to see the others look at him with mild amusement on their faces. "Apologies, lords, Captains, it's just that even the name irks me."

"My Battle-Captain has had numerous…debates with the Word Bearer," Mortarion explained.

"I can empathise with that," Amon ruefully agreed, despite not appreciating the lapse in protocol. Besides which, Garro was clearly in an inner circle as well... "Erebus has a spy within the ranks of the Coalition. I do not know who or to which Legion they belong, but given the recent troubles you have both had with certain victories being taken from your grasp, and especially the problems the Iron Warriors have had with the Dark Angels, the only conclusion I can come to after reading the battle reports is that the spy or spies are highly ranked. The scale of the leak would restrict it to one of perhaps the dozen highest-ranked Astartes in your Legions." Did that include Primarchs? No, Primarchs would have no reason to lie, their advantage would be greater with open support. Surely.

"Did you not even get an inkling of who it might be?" Perturabo asked.

"No, Lord. Once we had gotten Malcador off-planet, then Constantin might have told me, for he knew, it was what tipped his hand towards joining you all. But – well, he died and the secret died with him."

"It is conceivable that Malcador also knew and that this is what is locked in your skull, Captain Leng," Forrix remarked.

Amon nodded; that was a possibility, though it felt wrong, as if that knowledge was somehow more significant. Then again, that might just have been merely the impulse of grandeur. "In truth, First Captain Forrix, I do not know what the Sigillite put in my head; I was not privy to not only the box's name, but the warehouse's."

"I recommend monitoring of all command traffic." Perturabo got back to business. "If an Iron Warrior is working for that jumped-up priest, I will personally teach them what it means to betray me."

Mortarion arched an eyebrow. Perturabo took it personally when something went wrong within his expeditionary fleets, and he certainly did not suffer betrayal easily. History showed, too, that he had no compunctions about killing his own sons. If he said he was going to punish the spy, than that is what he would do.

"That won't be easy, Lord," Amon interjected. "We do not know who it is, and I am only going off the recent incidents you have both had. May I suggest an additional plan?"

"Please do." Mortarion folded his arms across his chest, his mighty scythe nestled between his powerful arms.

"Sow the seeds of misinformation. Allow it to be known that the Iron Warriors and Death Guard are prosecuting a war together in a manner that seems fragile, and then circulate it amongst both your inner circles." Amon tried his best to communicate to the Primarchs, but not the Captains, the point that Garro and Forrix were also involved in this - either of them would know that it was a trap, but no one else would. If nothing else, they could narrow the leak down.

Garro nodded in approval. "Whoever is in Erebus's account will have informed him, and we will have a surprise waiting for them."

"Assuming they take the bait and the traitor dogs in our ranks team up with whomever is sent to – distract us," Forrix nodded, clearly warming to the idea, "any idea where?"

Perturabo narrowed his eyes, his cabling swung low across his brow. "I know just the place." He called up the holographic image of his choosing.

"Mandarax," Forrix whispered.

"I have had reports that the populace have sided with the Emperor. I, for one, do not like the idea that a world I brought into compliance, that cost humans and Astartes to take, has fallen back into superstition."

Perturabo met his brother's gaze, the silence was heavy, unspoken words saying more than voices. Amon suspected they were contemplating the tactical details of the plan. The silence was broken by the hiss of Barbarus' air around Mortarion's gorget.

"Mandarax it is," he agreed. "Amon?"

Amon was silent for a moment, taking in what he was seeing. Mortarion and Perturabo, until now, had rarely worked together, and in truth Perturabo had prefered his own company and had kept his distance from many of the other Primarchs. Now though, with the universe turning on its head, old rivalries were being set aside.

"Inform only your inner circles," Amon told them. "Erebus would not deign to deal with lower-ranked warriors." And, of course, if the leak was lower down after all, that too would become clear.

Perturabo nodded. "I shall meet you there, brother."

Mortarion closed his hand around his brother's wrist. "See you there, brother." The camaraderie was a bit forced, but fundamentally it was genuine.

Amon hoped he was wrong about the leak, but he was only truly wondering about its cause. The warriors whose loyalty had been to the Emperor had been better-served by leaving together; moreover, a highly ranked Astarte would be able to sway more of his brothers to his side in that moment than now, when the lines were drawn. He began to wonder if there was another scheme at work here.

A scheme than even his former master was unaware of.


	4. Chapter Three

The bridge of the _Terminus Est_ hustled and bustled with activity. To allay suspicion from the other members of the Legion, they had continued on their standard patrol route; but there were others aboard the vessel, and she was not alone. The _Tempus Fugite_ , the vessel of the Third Company and of Captain Devlain Maragos was alongside, as was the _Eternal Scythe_ , the vessel of the  
Second Company and their captain Ignatius Grulgor.

The two captains and their retinue were already aboard, but thus far Typhon remained in solitude. Deep within the _Terminus Est_ was a chapel, and if Mortarion had known about it he would have punished the entire First Company; fortunately, Typhon was smarter than his Primarch. The chapel remained hidden from view, not even being on the ship's deck plans. If anyone saw it, they would assume it was a training room or storage area. None of his company spoke about it, nor did the crew; they all knew better.

There was a shrine to the Emperor in the corner of the chapel, but it was not that shrine that Typhon was knelt before with his head bowed. The fixation of Typhon's adoration was a strange three ringed symbol with three arrows pointing in different directions. He had always known about this god, long before the Emperor had returned from his journey into the warp. He had already made his pact and sold his soul. He had done all that was expected from him; and now, he felt that his reward was drawing near.

He remained in silent prayer, mouthing the litanies that he had known, somewhere inside him, long before the Word Bearers had formally taught him. When Erebus had come to him and discussed Typhon's plans, he had told the Death Guard that Nurgle already had his eye on the Fourteenth Legion, but if all the Death Guard did not want to follow in the faith of Papa Nurgle, Typhon was to choose those who would follow him.

He rose from his kneeling position and stretched his neck muscles, let the doors close behind him, and only then was he informed of the arrival of the second and third captains. He turned to Sergeant Refax, the cold smile barely touching his eyes.

"It is time, my friend. Mortarion will learn that nothing escapes the demands of the gods, especially the one we serve."

* * *

The war for Castelios Alpha had begun.

The first salvo came from the bastion and landed short of the Iron Warriors' first trench line. Some of the Baranians cheered at that; to the observing Warsmith, it was obvious that they were ranging their weapons. It would not be long before they hit home, and he did not want that, not yet. He turned as the figure loomed beside him and bowed his head.

"You said they would fire first, brother." Jasiera sighed. "It used to be so much easier when they surrendered after Perturabo offered his peace terms."

The sound that came from the ancient Dreadnought was a cross between an irritated hiss and a sigh. "Brother, times have changed since I walked amongst you all with my true form."

Isolder had been one of the original warriors that Perturabo had brought from Olympia to join with the Terran Iron Warriors. Perturabo had not had a pleasant time as a youth, but Isolder had been one of his friends, if such a thing had been possible for the young Primarch to have. When the Primarch had declared war on his adoptive father, Isolder had been there beside him and had been the first elevated into the Legion after Perturabo took command. He could have become First Captain, given time, but for a time he became Perturabo's equerry.

Yet his star had not remained ascendant for long. Isolder had been horrendously crippled in battle against the Orks, but whilst his body was broken his mind was still as sharp as ever, and Perturabo, not wanting to lose his old friend, allowed him to be interred into a Dreadnought. Jasiera knew that the honoured brothers in the Dreadnoughts generally lost their lucidity - such was the way of things for those venerable brothers - but Isolder still had his sharp mind and wit, enough to keep what remained of the man inside still a man of today and not to slip back into his previous life's memories.

"Did you take my advice, Jasiera?"

"I did, old friend." Jasiera nodded. "I have sent Bellicose Squad to meet up with the scouts that are watching the bastion."

"Good; this would be their induction into the full Astarte ranks. I suspect father will need as many as he can get before this is over." Isolder sighed "What will you do in the meantime?"

"Do what we always do." Jasiera grinned. "I already know the trajectory needed for our guns, and if there is a company of Dark Angels in there, I shall bring them to us. The sons of the Lion will wish they had found another field for us to meet on."

"Confidence is a good thing, Jasiera, but we are Iron Warriors. Iron within…."

"Iron without," Jasiera concluded, acknowledging his friend's hidden meaning. "I am confident in our abilities and know that we are not misguided by irrational beliefs."

"These are very true, but remember this, brother: with a belief that strong, fanaticism is a powerful tool of war. Remember Thealla and the Devevenescii?"

Jasiera acknowledged the former Warsmith's words. Fanaticism led to poor strategic decisions, but as in the Thealla campaign, it could also give baseline humans the strength of will to charge the Iron Warriors' lines with some success despite monstrous casualties. Nevertheless, Jasiera trusted that in the end, seeing the universe as it truly was would win out - as it had on Thealla, in the end.

The Warsmith opened his vox to the gunners. **++Fire++** he growled, and as one the roars of the Iron Warriors' heavy weapons exploded against the bastion walls.

* * *

The walls of the Castello Quae, Bello Deorum shook as the shells from the Iron Warriors' heavy weapons barrage struck home with precision and accuracy that few other Legions could attain. The screams of those who had been manning the walls were crushed under the falling battlements, and frantic vox-traffic was drowned out in the sound of concrete crashing to the floor.

In the midst of the carnage being inflicted upon the curtain wall of the fortress, a squad of Iron Warriors under the command of Sergeant Lennax, alongside a few scouts and two humans, made their way through the tree line. They coordinated their moves with the timing of the shells striking the walls to mask their movements. Even so, and despite their armour, they still moved with a stealth that belayed their size.

"Were it that we had our cousins of the Raven Lord with us, Brother-Sergeant," brother Artenena whispered to his sergeant.

Despite the futility of would-have-beens, Lennax grunted his agreement. Despite the relations between their Legions, the Iron Warriors could admit that when it came to stealth there were none better than the Raven Guard and the Alpha Legion (especially now that the Night Lords were not an option anymore), and of the two Lennax would still prefer to do with the Raven Guard. If rumours were to be believed, Corax was still shocked at the Emperors sudden turnaround and the losses the Raven Guard had taken in the chaos of the war's first month. No one knew what the Lord of Deliverance would do next, but his Primarch was almost certain that he would do something.

Coronus came before him and bowed her head. "My Lords," she quietly spoke, "I believe Terax and I have found an old tunnel that leads into the interior."

Behind his helm, Lennax smiled despite himself. This human female was one of the best scouts he had ever seen, and he had not even been aware they were following their own path until now. Ordinarily that would have been a reprimand for disobeying orders, but on this occasion, he settled for the fact they had used their initiative.

He moved his left hand and two brothers stepped forward. He then told Coronus to lead them to the entrance; they made their way slowly, watching all the time not so much for human patrols, but for patrols of another kind. Lord Isolder had made it plain that they were to try a different tactic in dealing with the sons of the Lion, so as to surprise an enemy that understood their Legion. Subterfuge was not their normal path, but then again, times were changing, and Lennax wondered if the sons of Perturabo might find a new approach they were talented at.

* * *

Typhon met his fellow Captains in his strategium. He did not care, one way or the other, that he had kept them waiting for almost an hour; devotions to his god came first. He waited until they were alone and turned to face them. The eerie glow of the _Terminus Est_ bathed his handsome features in ominous light, and his armor seemed to flicker, a low-level exertion of his secret psychic talents. Grulgor folded his arms across his chest.

"Are you in the habit of keeping your senior brothers waiting, Calas?" Grulgor was not happy and he did nothing to hide his irritation: he did not like being kept in the dark about what the famous First Captain was planning.

Typhon was aware of that fact. Indeed, he was happy for it, because it made it easy to manipulate Grulgor, a brutal and brave commander but one who on occasions was a sycophant to whatever star was rising in the eyes of the Primarch or the First Captain. Typhon was also aware that the hatred Grulgor had for any Death Guard who was Terran-born blinded him somewhat to the opportunities before him. His rivalry with the Seventh's beloved Battle-Captain, a symbol of that hatred, moreover reflected an occasional recklessness.

Typhon needed his plan to work, and that could mean finally getting Nathaniel Garro on side. Despite his deep loyalty for Mortarion, Garro was also Terran, and surely that meant that he still had a seed of loyalty to the Golden Throne, a seed Typhon had already been watering. It would soon be time to make it sprout, and Grulgor would not stand in the way of that - because for all of Grulgor's might, he was no Garro.

"You have a problem with me taking my time, Ignatius?" Typhus asked cordially. Maragos noticed that the sentiment did not touch the First's eyes and wisely kept his mouth shut. Grulgor did not.

"I have a problem with all this secrecy, Calas. Why can you not just bring us into whatever you have planned from the start?"

The next words that came from Grulgor's throat were interrupted by a sickening crunch as Calas lifted him off his feet and squeezed. Maragos moved quickly and placed his hand on Typhon's arm.

"Brother….we are here as you requested, do not do this -"

He stopped as Ignatius Grulgor fell to the floor, the choking having been accelerated by the First Captain's psychic powers. Typhon ignored Grulgor's arrogance towards others, but his disrespect towards _him_ was intolerable.

"Is he dead?" the First Captain coldly asked.

Maragos checked the prone captain's neck and nodded. "His neck is broken, Calas…."

"Pick him up and follow me; he won't be dead for long."

Maragos, not wanting to be the next focus of the First Captain's ill humours, did as he was asked. Now was not the time for power struggles, and besides, soon he would know whether Typhon was as mad as he appeared or truly on the verge of great power. He did not know what Calas Typhon had in store for the dead Second Captain, but he was quite curious to find out, so long as he wasn't the dead one.

Nevertheless, as Maragos followed Typhon, he had to suppress a frown at the Legion's greatest Astarte killing his brother so easily, even if it wasn't permanent. For the first time since he had linked up with Typhon to renew his oaths to the God-Emperor, he felt like he had dug too deep, not knowing what he'd gotten into.

"The Emperor remembers you," he whispered to Grulgor's corpse. "May He watch over us all."

* * *

In his private quarters on the _Destiny's Hand_ , the Black Cardinal and First Chaplain Erebus was implementing his father's orders. He had ensured that the information Lorgar wanted revealed was hidden, but not so deep that it would not be found. After all, he did not want to give them any easy track to find.

Erebus was also aware that Typhon had his own agenda. Like all his brothers, he worshipped Chaos Undivided with the Emperor as the main focus of their worship: as He had been before Monarchia, so it was again after the epiphany and the reconciliation. It irked him that not all of his cousins saw things the way the Word Bearers did, but it was not his place to question a Primarch, even though there were times he wanted to.

Typhon, however, had no interest in the Golden Throne, and from what Erebus had gleaned of his friend over the years was that he didn't much respect his Primarch either. That annoyed him: no matter what, the Primarchs were the fathers of the Astartes. Mortarion's own genome had been used to create the Death Guard, and he deserved, if not the respect of his sons, then at least their fear. Even the Death Guard who had returned to the side of the Emperor still spoke with love and honour of their father. More importantly, they did not underestimate him.

He had also learnt that Typhon had made a pact with the being they called Papa Nurgle, or the Grandfather, the great master of decay. It was this revelation that had made Lorgar's decision for him. The Death Guard were unique in that they had a higher resilience, such as to atmospheres that could cause any other Astartes problems after a while. It was perfectly understandable why the Plague God wanted them all to himself, and that was fine, for after all one did not upset the will of the gods.

What had annoyed Lorgar was that, all the time he had been preaching the Emperor's divinity in the times before, Typhon had made a point of mocking the Word Bearers for the same path he was now following.

With a sneer on his face, he set the wheels in motion. If Typhon wanted the favour of Grandfather Nurgle he would get it, and Erebus was not going to let his friend die, but he would be taught a lesson first, one that had been a long time in coming….

* * *

"So," Amon asked, turning to Garro. "Why did you not return to the side of the Emperor, Nathaniel?"

It was a direct question, but sometimes directness worked best. Amon was tired of not knowing whether he trusted Garro or not - the more he spoke about the subject that concerned him, the more chances he'd have to notice discrepancies.

Garro looked up from studying the reams of transcripts that he and Amon had spent the last day and a half looking through, Astarte and Custode both hoping to find that one lead that would tell them where the traitor was and who they were.

Garro was a tall man and large even for an Astartes. He bore the title Battle-Captain, an honour bestowed upon him by the Emperor long ago, in the time when the Death Guard were known as the Dusk Raiders. For reasons that escaped Amon, the Death Guard were made up of only seven Grand Companies. Typhon was the First Captain, Grulgor was also known as the Commander, and Garro was the Battle-Captain. Then again, the number of companies was but one sign of a broader pattern - there was something about the number seven that intrigued Mortarion and was one of the Primarch's own personal eccentricities.

"When I served in the Dusk Raiders, I followed the Emperor without question, Amon. I would have gone through the fires of nuclear war for him and back. He had preached that man did not need an invisible deity, one that neither cared about nor influenced mankind in any way. By his words, man was master of his own destiny. The Age of Technology had demonstrated as much, humanity ascending to become the greatest species of the galaxy. Science was the way forward, science and technology, not theology and magic."

Garro sat back and gazed over Amon's shoulder at some distant point that only he could see. "Terra was a beautiful world once. Oceans, seas, rivers, mountains, forests, animals that could not be found anywhere else. The Emperor has been trying to bring back nature on the Throneworld, but he quietly said that it was but an echo of the Terra that he had once known." He sighed heavily and turned his gaze onto the Last Lion, a name that had gotten attached to Amon like a deverea pod to a ship. "We got so clever that we reverted back to petty warlords, and wars fought with weapons we barely remember destroyed everything that was beautiful about Terra, everything that made her unique."

He stretched a little and ran his hand over his bald head. It was then that Amon saw the eagle - eagle, not aquila - engraved on his gauntlet. Garro followed his gaze and smiled a little.

"It is a symbol to remind me of my sworn Honour-Brother, Saul Tarvitz of the Emperors Children." Garro's brow creased a little. "I do not know what has become of him yet; I can only hope that he is well and fighting against all that we detest. And that, Amon, is why I cannot follow the Emperor. My company has the only few Terrans left in the Death Guard who opted to stay with Mortarion. The others returned to Terra, not that there were many of us left in the first place."

"It's always the way, isn't it," Amon murmured. He was hard-pressed to continue the conversation, in truth. The Emperor's Children were an Imperial Legion, and everything else that Garro had said only made the Battle-Captain seem more suspicious to the Custode's eyes.

"What is?"

"The Legions were incepted on Terra, and yet some of them, after being reunited with their Primarchs, suddenly started becoming more and more tied to their Primarchs' adopted home worlds. The Raven Guard were the worst, but there were others. The rumours before all this started was that the Terran-born Dark Angels were being sent to garrison Caliban and teach the new recruits. The Emperor was not concerned but Malcador was: he did not like the show of favouritism and believed that all Astartes, wherever they hailed from, should have been equal to the others."

Garro shook his head. "The point is, I could not see myself ever calling the Emperor a god. He had been so staunchly against it... He had burnt the last church himself. I was not there when he did it, but I have spoken to Thunder Warriors who were. He treated the old priest with respect, but in the end, the last church fell; and that, he had said, was the end of the age of religious fraud. Now all that he once taught has been siphoned into the void, all because he went into the Warp and came back enlightened and announced there were gods… oh, and that he was one of them. I can understand the Word Bearers suddenly flocking to his side at that announcement, after all, it is all they have preached and it vindicated everything that Lorgar mixed into them; but Dorn, Manus, Vulkan - I cannot believe that Rogal Dorn of all Primarchs would fall for it…."

Amon scratched his stubble and sat forward. "The Emperor chose those that would follow him without question and those that would follow him if they could get something in return. The Night Lords are the secret police of the Imperium now, their brand of justice accepted as the Imperial way. The World Eaters are more like the Space Wolves were. There was no way that Russ would to follow a god, but Angron would, if it meant he could prove his martial prowess as never before - or, perhaps, he simply does not care. Vulkan, for all the spirituality of his home world, was skeptical at first, but something occurred between him, Angron and the Emperor, on the world of Maragara. I do not know what, as I was not there, but Valdor was, and it changed him. Before, he had ordered us to follow the Emperor, for we were his Lions. The personal guard of the master of mankind, given meaning by our duty of service. Yet when he returned from witnessing Vulkan's conversion, he drew me to one side and told me that the only saviours mankind could have now were Horus and Sanguinius, followed by all those who refused to follow a living god."

Garro raised his eyebrows and smirked, but it was without humour. "Have you heard the rumours? Gulliman is apparently trying to fortify Ultramar into an Imperium Secundus. Horus does not believe they should be forging another empire, instead of working to save this one."

Amon shook his head. While he'd suspected something of the sort, he hadn't known the details - and could only hope that the lines of communication between Horus and Guilliman had not been broken. The last thing the renegades needed now was a schism. "I heard there was an argument, but I had no idea what it was about."

"I got that from the scuttlebutt flying around; how true it is, I cannot say."

Amon sighed a little. Trying to shift the blame, while speaking ill of the Coalition's unity. Another mark on the line of suspicions. "So you remained with Mortarion?"

"Mortarion is my gene-father. I would follow him until my death."

Amon returned his gaze to the transcripts, and silence fell between them once more, yet one even less comfortable than before. Amon couldn't be sure of anything, and now he knew that, despite the favor being shown by the Death Lord, he couldn't be sure of Garro's loyalty either.

* * *

Squad Bellicose silently made their way through the tunnel, each step taken with care. One look at the wet, moss-covered stonework around them revealed that a cave-in could be inevitable. An Iron Warrior's trained eye could tell that some stonework did not last forever, even in a fort as respectable as this one. Perhaps the original builders had, over time, forgotten about this hidden entrance. It might have once been used to smuggle food in at times of siege warfare, or troops out. But spiderweb-like cracks in the stone, only a few of which were recent enough to come from the current barrage, reflected the fact that such times had been long ago indeed.

As they moved around the corner, considering those things, a bolter shell took Scout Jeranu off his feet and sent him flying past the other Astartes, until his head cracked against a wall, leaving a bloody smear on the wall as his body finally slid to the ground. Apothecary Usezen immediately crouched by the body and touched his neck. He looked at the sergeant and shook his head: the shot had been precise, phenomenally so. Lennax cursed and moved his men behind him. They had been lax in the belief that none of the humans above them had remembered about this tunnel.

He motioned for two of his men to protect Usezen as he gathered the gene-seed from the dead scout. Usezen glanced down at the scout and closed his eyes. It was the way of things, but to lose a brother like that was a blow, especially a Scout. Still, even those that showed great promise sometimes faltered.

Lennax watched as Coronus removed a cube inscribed with serpentine designs from her belt and crouched down, moved and extended it until it just peeped round the corner, and peered through it. Brother Augustrix moved next to her and motioned at the tube. She moved back and let him peer through it.

Coronus nodded as he looked to her for clarification of what he had seen before handing her the snake-like camera back. Augustrix nodded his approval and turned to Lennax. "There are five Dark Angels, barricaded two hundred fifty meters ahead of us," he quietly spoke. "They were waiting for us."

"They knew we would find the tunnel, which is why it was so easy to get in. Bloody Calibanite bastards. I should have known that they would check for such entrances... fanatics or no, the First has never been stupid. What is that you used, sister?" Lennax knew of snake cameras, but he suspected that not all of the Scouts did.

Coronus stared as Lennax addressed her in a more familial way and straightened her posture.

"It is a snake camera, my lord, a Lannertian model - we use them in urban battles, though they are infrequent, as the countryside provides better use for our natural talents."

"Stick close by me," he whispered. "I will have need of your talents soon, but for the moment, remain here. We shall deal with the Dark Angels,"

"As you wish, Lord…."

"Brother," Lennax corrected quickly, for his rapport with Coronus was enough for him to call her an honour-sibling. "You can address me as brother, little sister."

Coronus smiled a little. "My name is Freada."

"And mine is Mattieus." He unhooked a smoke grenade from his belt, as anything else would bring the walls down. "Mark your targets and your shots well, brothers." He moved down the wall and rolled the grenade out, waiting until the smoke filled the area and ordering his squad to move to heat vision - the Dark Angels would do so too, of course, but reducing their accuracy would favor the Iron Warriors. They moved around the corner, firing at the heat signals ahead.

Two fell immediately, but the other three remained standing. The shots that had felled their brothers now turned on them. The smoke began to clear, and almost immediately the Iron Warriors compensated. Brother Calen went down as his knee was shattered by a shot from one of the Dark Angels that his visor identified as Sergeant Oslay.

He moved behind a wall panel and carried on firing, whispering the Unbreakable Litany as he did so. Brother Hendran took a shot that went through his neck and then on through his visor, shattering his skull - Usezen pulled him back behind the corner immediately, hoping to stabilize him. Brother Artenena placed a well-aimed shot at the Dark Angel named as Brother Zendar, sending him sprawling.

Lennax, Artenena, and Scout Yves charged the remaining two Dark Angels. Yves ducked out of the way as Brother Vanguaria unleashed a torrent of bolter fire in their direction. Incensed and searching for revenge for the death of his friend, he threw his combat knife straight into Vanguaria's neck and followed up with a shot to the temple. Lennax moved him to one side, keyed his chainsword, and took the Dark Angel sergeant's head off with a swipe that cauterised the neck where it cut through. The blood soaked the rocky ground that they stood on, and as the sound of battle cleared, Artenena shook his head; he had much of their father's anger inside him, and it showed on his face now.

Before he could say anything, they heard the reductor work its business on Brother Hendran, and Artenena mouthed a few words of respect for Hendran's sacrifice. He also vowed revenge. Kolax Hendran had been his closest battle brother, and they had come up through the ranks together. Lennax, knowing this, told him to bring the body.

He told Yves to collect Jeranu and watched the scout do as he was told. That boy had earnt the carapace today, that was certain. He moved to where Calen was being treated by Usezen.

"How are you doing, Johan?"

"I have another knee, Mattieus. Apothecary Usezen has assured me I'll be able to compensate for it."

"I will see to it that the knee is replaced when we return to the Olympian system." Usezen stood up. "For the moment I suggest rest, Sergeant."

Lennax got to his feet and walked over to where Coronus was kneeling by the body of her protégé, by the ruin that was left of Terax's chest. It looked like he had come too close to the corner of the fight and taken a shot to the chest. A human body was not built to withstand the force of a bolter shell. His ribcage stuck up through the body, as if his corpse had been half-devoured by some savage predator. Blood pooled around the body, and the look on the dead young man's face said it all - no horror, no fear, because he had not had the time to even realize that he was dead. Lennax looked at Coronus, who had her eyes closed and was muttering something beyond even his hearing. He reached over and gently shut the eyes.

"Blood of a warrior. Perturabo will know your name, Terax of Barania, and you will be remembered."

He went to carry the body, but Coronus shook her head. "It is an empty husk; his soul resides in our ancient forests as a guide to the younger generation. There is no use for his body now." She got to her feet and composed herself.

Lennax, always one to learn new things, resolved to find out more about Coronus' traditions, even if they had their base in superstition. He walked with her to the others and handed her some  
rations. They would rest for a moment, snack, and gather supplies such as bolter ammunition. Taking from the dead was not beyond him, for he knew they might need every piece of ammo they could get their hands on, whereas the dead did not.

Coronus stopped eating as she heard something. It was like a groan, seated deep within the wall, and her head darted to the side wall, calling the sergeant's attention to it, as great cracks began to spiral out of control. The bolter fire must have shaken the foundations, for it was not the quietest of weapons.

 **"RUN"** Lennax yelled, perhaps unnecessarily, as masonry began to fall.

The remaining brothers and their scouts began to run, Usezen aiding Calen, as behind them the tunnel collapsed in on itself, leaving their dead behind buried under the rubble. They emerged into a vast corridor as the sound of a tunnel collapse cascaded around them and finally settled, throwing enough dust up into the air to coat the armour of the Iron Warriors in a fine ash-colored coating. Coronus, by the time the rumbling had stopped, looked like a ghost.

The Iron Warriors were not superstitious, if anything they were as close as possible to the opposite, but they looked to the human with them and subconsciously saw her as, perhaps, a charm of good luck. They would not admit so even to themselves, of course. But even those, such as Yves, who didn't attach any subconscious meaning to it would have admitted that having Coronus around was improving morale. Of course, as the veterans in the group would have told him, Perturabo's more relaxed grip did even more for that - for once, the Iron Warriors felt like they were doing what they had been born to do, and not merely the aspect of it they were most skilled at.

Lennax pointed. "That way," he growled, and they walked north, knowing that the way out would be more hazardous than the way they came in.


	5. Chapter Four

Maragos lay the limp body of Ignatius Grulgor on the sanctified altar as Typhon directed. Orders had come through for them to join with the rest of the Death Guard's fleet. Typhon had already commanded the _Terminus Est_ to join the muster; he had also sent word to Erebus about the plans for the Iron Warriors and Death Guard to assault the world of Mandarax.

Typhon had said simply that he trusted his friend's discretion in using the information. Right now, there were other things to do. Maragos was not comfortable in here; he glanced at the small shrine to the Emperor and made the sign of the aquila to ward off any evil that might be lurking about. Typhon looked at him with mild amusement.

"Superstitious, are you, Devlain?"

"Just wary, if I am honest," Maragos replied. He did not say aloud that they were living in a time of confirmed superstitions. "What are we doing, Calas?"

"Patience, brother. Come kneel beside me: it is time for us to receive our lord's blessing."

Both men felt the shift as the _Terminus Est_ entered the Warp, the _Eternal Scythe_ and _Tempus Fugite_ alongside her. They bowed their heads and closed their eyes, waiting vigilantly over the body of the Second Captain. In their meditation, they did not see or feel, at first, what was happening in the Warp that surrounded the ship.

In this, they were alone on the entire _Terminus Est_ , indeed on the entire fleet. The Warp began to swirl violently with the aftershocks of Typhon's ritual, making it impossible for the Navigators to see where they were going. It was, one crewman said in those frantic moments, as if the Warp had suddenly taken on a life of its own, stretching in tendrils with no end to drag the vessel down - not that 'down' had meaning here. The transformation seemed instantaneous to some, while to others it seemed they had been marooned for years. Things that no human language could describe began to pound the hulls of the ship, and tendrils of energy began to encase each vessel, warping them into something other than what they had been. Where the gun turrets were, great bulbous masses appeared, and as the energy wound its way through the Gellar Fields' weakest points, the ships began to alter, inside and out, into something hideous, something more terrible than even the sky-cities of death that they had once been. From the engineering decks, humans screamed in terror as creatures that appeared to be featureless oozes with gaping pestilent holes attacked, tearing them apart and taking some of the bodies for themselves. On other decks, humans already going insane began to pull their eyes out of their sockets in order to no longer see what was going on around them. Yet the pieces of the former knit themselves back together into unbreathing husks that returned to their labor, and the latter were unhurt by the blood loss, growing new eyes on their arms and, where those eyes had been, fleshy helices that could see the Warp as their eyes had seen realspace. The _Terminus Est_ and the fleet surrounding it were dying, true, but that was only a part of their metamorphosis. Sickness, then death, then rebirth, always in that order.

The Astartes fared no better. Even their famed resilience was no match for whatever the ritual had done, and their legendary constitutions, proofed against all known diseases and infections, were turning against them. Their superhuman bodies would not allow them to die, but instead rotted them eternally from the inside. Their low, agonized, unending screams were unlike anything the universe had heard before.

Maragos stared as Grulgor began to wake, a twisted and bloated version of his once handsome self. Maragos himself had begun to feel the effects of the Warp intrusion: black slime fell from his mouth as his body warped with the same effects that his brothers were experiencing. Only Typhon seemed serene despite what was happening around him.

He was uttering loyalty to whatever was doing this; and to save his brothers, Maragos knew that he could do nothing but the same. He stared as the visage of a great entity appeared before them. Its body was bloated with corruption and exuded a sickly diseased stench. It was leathery but necrotic and green, its surface pockmarked with boils, sores and running pestilence. Maragos lay on the floor, the pain racking his body as it altered (how long had it been?) and he saw the god's exposed guts, running with… things. He was loathe to think of daemons, but that is how it seemed to him: even his sickened mind still saw them as daemons.

"I will take this one." He motioned to Grulgor. "I have plans for him, my herald."

The voice was altogether liquidised and like the sound of a caring parent.

The First Captain rose to his feet and helped Maragos, both men hideously altered beyond recognition. Calas Typhon's armour now encased his entire body, and from within it came the sound of buzzing.

"My host to the Destroyer Hive," the voice gurgled again. "My Herald! Spread my great works and my word. I have spared the mortals and warriors on these vessels, and they have known my caring nature."

"As you will, grandfather."

With a shifting of his feet, Typhus gripped his scythe.

The god took the figure of Grulgor. "He will be returned when I am done."

Maragos heard nothing over the vox - and then prayers, prayers to their deliverer. But as he caught a glance at his transformed self, he began to loathe Typhus for what he had done to gain power.

It was a hatred that would last the rest of his days, for it was not in the nature of those who served Nurgle to change. Maragos knew he would remain in service to this plague god, but he would never again trust the man who had been his friend.

Outside, the Warp Storm abated without being noticed by any but the most well-equipped of astropathic stations, and the three vessels made their way through to realspace - but where once they had been ships of war and conquest, what they were now was nightmares to reality's realms.

* * *

The _Indomitable Will_ sat at high anchor around the planet Mandarax. Mortarion stood, staring balefully at the planet below. He had brought this world into compliance; he had raised the Imperial standard himself, alongside that of the Death Guard. He had left General Ofara, a veteran of many campaigns, as governor; Ofara and his Imperial Army Unit, the 24th Royal Grenadiers of Ulser, had more than earnt their right to settle the world.

They had named it Mandarax, after an old hero from their world Usler Minor's past. Mortarion had no reason to believe that Castus Ofara had turned against him; instead, the last communique he had received from Mandarax had been a cry for help, stating that forces loyal to the Emperor had turned against their own. It had been one among a storm of such pleas at the time, and there had been no opportunity to address it.

Now, all hails were being met with silence.

He waited. He would not prosecute this war alone; he was more than capable of taking the planet with the forces he already had, but he had promised Perturabo a slice of the action and one did not go back on a promise to the Comrade. He watched as Iron Warrior ships translated into system and then stood straighter as the mighty _Iron Blood_ came through.

He allowed a slight smile to cross his face: the biggest ship in the Iron Warriors fleet, and when she arrived, you knew that Perturabo was here. He frowned a little as he glanced at the hololithic display wondering where his first three captains were; their vessels were not in the formation, and despite the firepower of the Primarch's vessel and the _Endurance_ , the _Terminus Est_ had still been required in his primary plans for the war. The ships' absence did not speak of subterfuge - this was too early for backstabbing. If anything, it was more likely that they'd been attacked. But then again, he had not received any requests for assistance, and even proud Typhon would have sent one if it had been truly needed.

For now, Mortarion would continue sending messages planetside without hope of reply, giving Perturabo a chance to prepare himself and Typhon, Grulgor, and Maragos a chance to arrive.

* * *

The Iron Warriors stepped back as the crowning glory in their arsenal made an appearance. The _Death Incarnate_ , _Jericho_ , _Troi_ , and _War Bringer_ , all of them mighty Goth-class Reaver Titans. They were equipped with a mix of Vulcan cannon, quake cannon, inferno gun, apocalypse missile launchers and large plasma cannon. All four of the Reavers took their places, readying for the battle. The Imperial Army placed their ear defenders on, and the Iron Warriors ensured that their armour suits' audio compensators were ready.

Jasiera had not heard from squad Bellicose for several hours, but then again he had told them to maintain radio silence. After all, he did not want anyone knowing they were there. Still, he could not escape the feeling that something had gone wrong. Some Legions would have delayed the bombardment for that reason; Jasiera knew that if something had indeed gone wrong, then the squad was almost certainly dead, and the best way to honour his brothers' sacrifices was to destroy the fortress they had fallen against.

He watched as the drone vessels unleashed their payloads. Although they were destroyed themselves in the process, they did their job: the shielding around the centre of the bastion crumbled under the bombardment and the Warsmith grimly smiled.

 **++Princeps Tynar, are you and your brothers ready? ++**

 **++We are, my Lord Warsmith, on your mark++**

 **++Fire when ready, for the Primarch and the Warmaster++**

 **++For the Omni….Primarch and the Warmaster++**

Tynar caught himself, and Jasiera did not blame him for that. Since the bizarre events occurring not just on Terra but Mars as well, many of the Legions that had once been loyal to the old order found their Titans geared more to the Warmaster. In recognition of that, they had dropped the reference to the Omnissiah from their traditional salute.

The Warsmith did not know if the Omnissiah was truly a name for the Emperor or not, but he would not chastise the Princeps for finding it difficult to reconcile the old with the new. It would take time for all of them.

He watched as the four Titans unleashed their payloads. There was a reason he had Reavers of the Goth class in his retinue: their weapons could bring an enemy's walls down to nothing but rubble, and they were doing just that. He could imagine the panic behind the walls, the human warriors covering their ears as the mighty roar of the Titans' armaments burst their ear drums, making them bleed and rendering them deaf for the rest of their lives. Admittedly, for most of those soldiers that remainder would be short indeed, for they too would be crushed by falling masonry.

Jasiera was about to move to where his company waited when he saw them. Black-armoured transhumans figures, emerging from the shattered areas of the curtain wall where the Titans had broken through.

"Finally," he whispered to himself **++Brothers and sisters of Barania, concern yourself with the human soldiers; brothers of the Legion, the Sons of the Lion have come to meet us. Let us not disappoint them; Iron within….++**

 **++Iron Without!++**

 **++For the Primarch and the Warmaster.++**

He joined his company and, with Isolder beside him, the Iron Warriors went to meet the Dark Angels.

* * *

Amon and Garro stared at each other as they found what they had been looking for. It was minute, really, and had they not been so diligent in their work, they would have missed it.

"No." Garro did not want to believe what he was reading.

"Transcripts do not lie, Nathaniel," Amon whispered.

"Could they have been doctored?"

"Bit difficult to doctor the Astropathic Choir, I would have thought." Amon looked at him, still suspicious. This had not been easy at all, but it had nevertheless been suspiciously easy. "Wouldn't you?"

Either Garro had tried to shift the blame, or - and Amon thought this more likely, based on the records' trustworthiness - Calas Typhon had made an error of a sort he had avoided hundreds of times before. Almost like, this time around, he didn't care if he got caught. Or as if whoever was on the other end of the line had allowed it to be intercepted.

"Look how his last name has changed." Garro, oblivious to Amon's doubts, rose from his seat and activated his personal vox. **++Father, I believe we have found the traitor, and I do not believe you are going to like it.++**

 **++I think we already know. Come to the bridge, both of you.++**

Garro straightened as he heard not the death whisper of his father, but the dark and sombre voice of his uncle.  
 **  
++At once, my lord.++** Garro turned to Amon. "Perturabo's aboard, and we are required on the bridge."

Amon rose from his seat and both men left the archive room.

They arrived on the bridge to see all faces watching the screen with varying degrees of horror and revulsion on their faces. Even the Deathshroud, Mortarion's bodyguard, were unsettled by what they were seeing; their faces were hidden as always, but their body language spoke volumes.

There were only two figures that did not seem disgusted, and that was because they were so angry that this disgust was entirely overwhelmed. Mortarion's fists clenched and unclenched as he struggled to contain the rage that was building within him, whereas the only clue of Perturabo's disbelief showed in a throbbing of the neck vein in his giant neck.

Garro could not believe what he was seeing, and Amon shook his head slowly. There, on the screen, three ships came slowly into view, the leader being the one that caused a horrific gasp to erupt from the human crew.

All three vessels seemed to be surrounded by some sort of swarm, and as Mortarion took in the sight, he thought he saw something like flies whizzing round the vaunted vessel, like children around their mother.

There were giant boils and blisters that covered the _Terminus Est_ and, to a lesser extent, her sisters like great swaths of corrupted rotted moss clinging to something that was dying but refused to give up life. As they drew closer, the ships looked to all intents and purposes as if they had been aged several thousand years. Permanent rusted batteries looked like they had fired their last salvo, and nothing remained of the pristine vessels that they had once housed them. Instead they all heaved with the putrid lodgers that now were their make-up.

"Get me Typhon." Mortarion's voice was almost a whisper, but it was still heard throughout the bridge. "I want to know what is going on."

"It seems, my lord, that Typhon is now calling himself Typhus and has been in league with Erebus since the schism began," Garro explained.

Before Mortarion could answer, a face appeared on the screen, and if any of the Astartes, either Iron Warriors and Death Guard, had thought it was all a bad dream they were given a rude awakening. In truth, though, most of the sons of Mortarion and Perturabo had already understood exactly what was going on. Neither Legion was one for denial.

"Hello, Father." The First Captain chuckled. "Ah, Uncle, you too are here to witness the glory that will be the resurrection of the Dusk Raiders."

"Calas, what have you done?" Mortarion spluttered.

"What you, Father, are too blinded to do," Typhus replied. "What I alone could do."

As the diseased light of the bridge of the _Terminus Est_ fell fully upon the First Captain, the changes wrought upon him became apparent. His once pristine terminator armour was now warped out of all recognition, no longer bearing the colours of the Death Guard but rather a sickly putrid green. And from the centre of his helm, there rose a single horn. Great rents in his armour housed flies, bulbous flies that flew in and out of him, feasting on whatever disgustingness lay underneath. Perturabo heard a retching sound beside him and turned to see the helmswoman become violently sick. He motioned to one of the human officers, who took her from her station and helped her off the bridge, someone else replacing her.

"Eyes down, sons and daughters of the bridge crew," he kindly ordered. The baselines were happy to comply, but the Primarchs kept their eyes fixed on the horror that the bridge of the _Terminus Est_ had become.

"Listen to me," Typhus said. "I know you are furious, but listen. Father, Uncle, you can still join the Emperor. Horus cannot win this; you shall all be cast adrift and history shall write you as the traitors."

"I will have your head, Typhon," Mortarion raged. Perturabo said nothing but gave an unequivocal look of raw contempt.

"I think not."

"My lords, vessels of the Imperial Fists have just translated in-system." The Admiral looked up. "It's a trap."

"I will return to my vessel, brother."

"Amon, go with Perturabo," Mortarion insisted before returning to glaring at the mocking visage of his former First Captain with resolved hate. "I shall deal with that traitor scum."

* * *

Jasiera slammed into the Dark Angel warriors, neither heeding nor caring about their incomprehensible battle-cries. All he concerned himself with was fighting for the true Imperial Truth, the real way of things; and as his brothers followed suit, he knew that whatever would become of this day, they had done their duty.

Inside the citadel, another battle raged. Squad Bellicose had emerged into the main compound and set upon the terrified humans that were mustering to man the falling walls. The Iron Warriors had no time to offer their usual terms of surrender - but then, one could say that this was no longer an issue, as this was not a world that was to be newly made compliant, but a world that had turned away from loyalty to foul gods and dark practices.

More importantly, no one genuinely though there was even the slightest chance of a surrender being accepted.

Coronus took the head off a commissar and immediately followed that with a shot to the company sergeant's head. Lennax had ordered two of his men to flank the human scout: she would survive, their squad would keep her alive, he told himself.

He roared his own bloodlust. His choler reigned over his humours, and Lennax used that cold rage. Ordering his men to wipe out every last one of them, he made for the main doors of the compound when a giant shadow covered him. He looked up into the face of the Chaplain-Redemptor of the Dark Angels and rolled to one side as the Crozius missed his head by inches.

Kerasa snarled like a caged beast and moved round once more, incensed that Brother Sergeant Oslay and his squad had not returned. With the cursed Olympians here it could only mean one thing: they had been killed. Precious Calibanite blood spilt by moody heathens - they would pay for that.

Lennax rolled again as once more the crozius came down, but this time he was not fast enough to avoid a glancing blow against his arm. He bit back the cry as the power field around the crozius broke his forearm.

"In the name of the Holy Emperor, you will die, heretic!"

Lennax gritted his teeth as the Larraman cells went to work. Until they had done their job, his arm would be useless to him. Nevertheless he hauled himself to his feet, only to be kicked face-forwards into the dirt and onto his back.

"You should remain in the dirt where the Emperor commanded; leave the mighty Lord Dorn to do what your childish father cannot."

Lennax gripped his chainsword as Kerasa continued his taunting, opening up the old wound and the old rivalry again. He blocked out all the sounds around him - the Dark Angel's words, the screams of the dying, the grating sound of chainsword teeth against ceramite. All he focused on was the skull-faced visage of the Chaplain-Redemptor.

"Iron Within…." he snarled as he pushed the chainsword up through the Dark Angel's chin, splattering blood, bone, meat and brain over himself and the concrete below him.

Kerasa danced like a possessed puppet as the teeth plowed through his skull and erupted from the top of his head in a sanguine gush. Lennax got to his feet as he pulled his weapon free.

"Iron Without."

* * *

The _Fist of Dorn_ began a spiral downward as the _Fires of Olympia_ sent her to her fiery demise with three broadsides. As Captain Ingara watched, emotionless, from his throne, the Imperial Fists battle-barge turned upside down and headed down towards the planet below them; whatever the torpedoes had not done, gravity would do. He did not say anything to commend the dead souls, for they did not deserve it.

The _Hammer of Perturabo_ took down the Imperial Fists fighters before the _Inwiteax_ blew out her engines, leaving her dead in the void. The fires that raged in the engine rooms were quickly contained, but a secondary blast unleashed something more than fire. Beasts from the warp, things that were red and looked to all intents and purposes like impossibly vicious attack dogs, took the screaming crew members down one by one. Yet the alarm had been raised. The Iron Warriors of the _Hammer of Perturabo_ rushed to the engine rooms to combat whatever had come aboard their vessel.

Sergeant Garrex halted as the abominations came towards him: behind them a Librarian wearing the colours of the Imperial Fists seemed to be guiding them. It appeared that the Edict of Nikaea was no more, even on the other side of the war.

The hounds, if that is what they were, measured about two meters long from nose to tail with lean wiry bodies and arched backs. They were covered in blood-red scales with huge collars that looked like a great circle of spines, connected to an orange red membrane and rows of iron plates that were driven into their flesh along their backs. The iron plates were held in place by rivets shaped in a sigil that hurt the Sergeants eyes to look at too long. He had no idea what it was that had sent these things, aside from the obvious answer of the Seventh Legion, but by the Iron Lord's will he was going to kick them off his captain's vessel.

One of them came at him, its milky orbs reminding him of a shark's eyes at the moment of attack. Its huge, razor-sharp fangs made to clamp around his arm and shook it, making him drop his bolter. He lifted his arm and powered his power fist, even as the two-toed razor claws tore at his chest plate, cutting through it like a knife through butter. He grunted at the weight of the thing and, with a swipe more out of desperation than any real discipline, swung his power fist up, under, and through the flesh.

The hound jerked a little and then fell, dissipating back into wherever it came from. His brothers had not fared so well: three of them were dead, their chests exposed to the air and their gene-seed gone forever, either eaten or tainted. Sergeant Yentoz came up behind the stricken squad and ordered flamers. Within moments, the area was blanketed in hot flames and the strange hounds were gone, leaving the Imperial Fist to deal with.

Garrex rose to his full height and ordered the remainder of his team to fall back and protect the rest of the ship and its crew. As Yentoz got the remaining humans out with his squad and what was left of Garrex's, he saw his friend go toe to toe with the Librarian. He closed his eyes as his friend had his armour sloughed off him, followed by his skin, revealing musculature, veins and blood. But still, the stricken sergeant carried on fighting and, with his dying hand, grasped a krak grenade and pulled the pin, the Iron Warriors' mantra on his lips, before tossing it into the mouth of the chanting Librarian. Yentoz closed the blast doors, leaving him with only the sound of his friend and the Fist being shredded into atoms.

Such scenes played out throughout the orbit of Mandarax, meticulously guided by the Primarch's hand. In the heart of the battle, the _Iron Blood_ itself roared through the smaller vessels of the Imperial Fists, sending them into their deaths with the vengeance that only a Primarch could deliver.

"My lord, Perturabo," the human vox officer called with urgency, "we have boarding torpedoes on decks 9 through 15."

"Take the throne, Master Ingles." Perturabo growled and grabbed his hammer. **++Forrix, meet me with your Terminators; we are going to teach the golden boys why they should not have come here.++**

 **++ On my way, father. ++**

He glanced at Amon and motioned with his head. "Come, Lion."

Amon gripped his weapon and followed the Lord of Iron.

As the Iron Warriors across the battlefield fought their cousins, a powerful voice came across their vox networks. As he strode through the deck of his ship, his hammer breaking ceramite, crashing skulls and pulping bone and meat, Perturabo, Primarch of the Fourth Legion, began to chant.

 **++From iron cometh strength++**

 **++From strength cometh will++** , the voices of thousands of Iron Warriors came back.

Perturabo punched his fist through the chest plate of a company champion of the Imperial Fists, his Custode companion, First Captain and Iron Guard taking out other intruders as they came into the Imperial Army mess hall.

 **++From will cometh faith++** , Perturabo continued as he and his retinue continued, cutting their bloody swathe through the Imperial Fist lines. Two Astartes of the First Company went down, their heads obliterated into bone and blood; their deaths incensed the mighty Primarch further.  
 **  
++From faith cometh honour++** ; still the Iron Warriors chanted their Unbreakable Litany, drawing strength from the words their father had spoken since the dawn of his journey. Since Olympia.

 **++From honour cometh iron++**

As one, the vox-nets came alive. **++This is the Unbreakable Litany, and may it forever be so!++**

 **++Get these bastard sons of a bastard Primarch off my ships, my sons!++**

Perturabo raged.

It was one thing to see an Astartes rage, in itself a terrible sight, but to see a Primarch rage was something different entirely. His head long shaved, coils laid like dreadlocks over his skull, the light from his gorget giving his skin a burning tint and his cold blue eyes filled with hate.

He was the Siege Master, the Comrade, the Lord of Iron, Deliverer of Tyrants, Hammer of Olympia; he was first of the Iron Warriors, and he would not permit his misguided and corrupted nephews to take even one of his ships. Even if it meant the spilling of their Olympian blood, not one of his sons would shirk their duties. This was his manifesto, written in war. True, he was finding his dreams once more, but Perturabo knew he and his sons had to remain nightmares to their enemies. There were some foes who deserved mercy, but those, such as an Imperial Fists, who did not would be crushed to the subnuclear level by the might of the Fourth Legion.

Amon glanced ahead and moved before the Primarch, moving his shield before him as bolter fire blanketed the area, Perturabo stared as the Custode took the fire and, opening up his guardian spear, returned fire. He recognised it as somewhat of an unnecessary risk, but also as a catharsis, a cleansing, an expression of Amon's need to be a warrior again.

"This is for Alyce Springs, for Constantin Valdor, and for Malcador!" he growled.

Forrix stared as he saw the power of the guardian spear unleashed, and it was indeed an impressive sight. Yellow armour seemed to burst apart at each strike, and using the shield he had picked up along the way as a guard, the Custode moved with a speed that belied his bulk.

Amon threw the shield, and Forrix, Harkor, and Erasmus Golg, the Primarch's Trident, watched as the shield span like a giant discus, knocking Astartes to their backs, enabling the Cobalt Brotherhood and the other Astartes to move in and sweep up.

Perturabo rested a hand on Amon's shoulder; he said nothing, but nothing needed to be said. Amon nodded and let the Primarch lead the way once more.

* * *

Mortarion had already seen three of his ships destroyed by what had once been the vaunted _Terminus Est_. The frigate _Eisenstein_ had started the run but had been shot down by….well, the Death Lord did not know what, but they were not the torpedoes whose schematics he knew by heart. The _Infantry of Death_ had been next, destroyed by the _Eternal Scythe_ , and the _Hand of Barbarus_ …well, he did not know what had happened on there. All he saw was boarding torpedoes from the _Tempus Fugit_ slam into the old cruiser; and even after everything he had seen in the Great Crusade, the screams thereafter were sounds that would remain with him. This was witchcraft - not merely the cautious dabbling that the Thousand Sons used, but the act of diving freely into the forbidden and surrendering oneself to corruption.

He had fought that corruption before, and he would again. Mortarion ordered the _Indomitable Will_ to rendezvous with the _Enduranc_ e and turned to Garro.

"Get the Seventh ready, Nathaniel… we will take that traitor on."

"Father…."

Mortarion cut him off with a curt expression before he could finish. "I will lead, and my Battle-Captain will accompany me with his company. Is that understood?"

Garro bowed his head and started ordering his company to stand ready. Although Mortarion had not said how many Astartes would be accompanying him, the Troublesome Seventh would have another battle honour to add to the many already obtained.

Mortarion grabbed his manreaper. "I will have your head, Typhus, or whatever you are calling yourself. I will take you apart, piece by piece, for this stain on my honour."

One of the Deathshroud turned to face his master, but Mortarion said no more: even as deep in the throes of hatred as he was, he was planning.

* * *

The Iron Warriors plowed onward across the now-slick battlefield. The remaining guns from the citadel covered the Dark Angels and the defenders, but even so, for every human warrior that fell on the side of the attackers, double their number fell on the opposite side. Venerable Brother Isolder and his brothers Junas, Lorix, Kanos and Temeracles ensured that the attackers fell under their cannon fire, ensuring a decisive firepower advantage.

Isolder swiveled as he saw a Dark Angels Dreadnought cut down several brother Iron Warriors and destroy a Rhino. The humans tumbling from the wreckage screamed as fire consumed their bodies. He swung his auto-cannon round.

 **++Ragnarax++** , he boomed, making the Dark Angel stop. What sounded like a deep, booming laugh erupted from his speakers.

Jasiera froze as he heard the name of the Marine who had once been a honour-brother of Isolder. The two men had been warriors bound by something stronger that blood, and yet now they were fighting against each other, where once they would have fought together.  
 **  
++This is not how it was meant to be, honour-brother++** Isolder voxed.

 **++Save your words, heretic. The Emperor is all that is correct in the universe. You and yours chose to ignore his call.++**

 **++You call all this rightfulness? This is madness, Ragnarax++**

 **++The Emperor has been chosen, and we are ordained to follow him, as we have since the start. Those who do follow him will have eternal glory, and traitors will find only death++**

Isolder made a gesture that looked like a shoulder shrug and, without another word, unleashed the full force of his auto-cannon. Ragnarax staggered back and fired his melta-cannon straight into Isolder's sarcophagus, the shot instantly frying the remains of the warrior within.

Jasiera screamed out a roar of denial as his old Warsmith and friend toppled backwards and did not move again, the ruined shell everything left of the great Warsmith. As if echoing their Warsmith's grief, or rather feeling their own, the remaining Dreadnoughts opened fire, bathing the area with their cannons and melta guns. Ragnarax exploded in a hail of fire and, as his ammunition cooked off, the resulting fireball took out several Dark Angels around him.

Yet the Warsmith remained consumed by rage. Jasiera blanked out the battle around him: he could not hear the dying guardsmen and -women, and he could not hear the sounds of bolter, melta, and plasma fire of his brothers. He could not hear the sound of the reductors as they did their grisly work. All he could see was the object of his hate, the captain of the Dark Angels, those cousins who had turned his galaxy upside down.

He shot, cut and decapitated his way through to where Alejandra stood, until his once-pristine armour looked more like it had been painted in blood and gore than in the colours of his beloved Legion. He did not seek to temper his rage, not now, not against these traitors to the Great Crusade. He merely channeled it past his caution, holding back just enough to not get killed himself.

"Come, traitor," Alejandra spoke, although the vox-grill distorted the Calibanite accent into something not quite human, or for that matter Astarte. "I will restore the honour of my father."

"Your father's honour was destroyed when he took the side of the mad Emperor and his allies and tried to dishonour my father," Jasiera snarled, his power sword dripping with gore.

"Everyone knows that the Iron Warriors are nothing more than a squabbling band of children with their own agendas," Alejandra jeered. "They forsook unity for their own agendas. Your Legion should have kept the hand given to them. Now, you're once again on the outside, looking in."

Jasiera had heard enough. Yes, there were brothers within his Legion who placed their ambitions foremost. It was the product of years of living under the Tyrant of Olympia, Perturabo's adopted father. Paranoia bred dissent... but then, sometimes it worked: Perturabo encouraged such things, within reasonable limits, as they showed him who was born to lead and who was wrought to follow. But none of those intra-Legion disputes had underlain the current war. None of them had retreated from progress.

He removed his helm and clipped it to his belt, showing his handsome features to the enemy. This would be his battle - maybe his final battle, but a glorious battle nevertheless. The Iron Warriors were no longer just the Emperor's trench dogs. They had finally been released to do more than the garrison work that had dragged their morale down, fed their bitterness, and drew them as second to the glory boys of Dorn. This battle alone had done more to prove his Grand Battalion's worth than the previous decade of combat. And tired though he was, Jasiera knew he still had the strength to finish this. He leapt to meet the Dark Angel and battle was joined. But after only a couple of blows, he realised there was something about the Dark Angel that was not right, an aura that made Jasiera feel sick to his transhuman stomach.

He gritted his teeth and fought against the nausea. He was an Astarte, a true Astarte, and this was nothing but witchcraft. He caught the fist that came his way and butted his head against the Dark Angel's own helm, cracking it.

Alejandra staggered back and, in frustration, removed his helm; but what was revealed caused Jasiera to stagger back himself in horror. He had seen many Dark Angels in his three centuries of being an Astarte. They all had the noble, knightly countenance of their father, but this… before him, the face had been warped into something less than human. Two horns had begun to sprout from the centre of the Dark Angel's forehead. His nose and top lip were fusing together and his eyes were gone; instead, a long strip of flesh sat over where his eyes had been and a single red line seemed to move across the length backwards and forwards.

So shocked was he that he did not see the punch that knocked him backwards, followed by a great strength against his arm, stronger than that of any Astarte. He brought his bolter up, but not before his forearm was torn off. He yelled in pain and fired off three rounds.

Alejandra fell to his knees as Jasiera got to his feet, his Larraman cells already clotting the blood; he aimed his bolter at the Dark Angel's head but was picked up and flung back into the slickening mud. The shots that he had fired at Alejandra had simply been pushed out with no apparent wounds. Pushing himself back, he looked around for something more than the weapons he had. He screamed out as Alejandra ripped his left leg off and tossed it aside like it was nothing; he was being torn apart, piece by piece, and the gurgle that came from that thing's mouth might have been a laugh. His fingers closed around a flamer. Hefting it up and using the stump of his right arm to balance, he spat the acidic blood to one side.

"Do you think that is going to save you, heretic scum?"

"Take a look in the fucking mirror, you bastard." Jasiera breathed and fired.

"WARSMITH!"

Unseles ran with the remnants of his squad; taking his cloak, he wrapped it around his Warsmith and put out the flames that were trying to consume him. The sound he heard from the Dark Angel captain made him look up in horror.

"Get rid of it!" he snarled and his team finished the prone Dark Angel.

Apothecary Resalan knelt by the Warsmith and touched his neck. "By the Lord of Iron, he is still alive."

Unseles bowed his head, relieved that his Warsmith was still alive, but knowing that with half his body gone there would be only one place for him. To continue his service, Jasiera's body slipped into Sus-an sleep.  
 **  
++Princeps Tynar++**

 **++Yes, Sergeant Unseles?++**

Unseles stood over the warped body of the Dark Angels Captain and kicked it in disgust. **++Bring those walls down in their entirety++**

 **++Gladly!++**

He watched as the Reavers fired as one and, one by one, the walls came crumbling down.

* * *

Sergeant Lennax gathered his squad together and looked around. **++Where is Freda? ++**

The brothers started as they realised their good luck charm was not with them. Brothers Augustrix and Artenena moved off, firing, as they went looking for their 'little sister'. They moved fast, dodging the falling walls and towers of the citadel that was now in its death throes as the Reavers and the guns of the artillery barrage below hammered the final nails in the enemy's coffin.

Augustrix stopped where he was and sank to his knees as he found her. Her chest had been splayed open, exposing her insides, and she had been crucified against the walls. Artenena relayed the news to their brothers and rested a hand on Augustrixs' shoulder just as her eyes flickered open.

She gurgled something and, as Artenena leant forward to listen, he closed his eyes and clenched his fists.

"I-Iron within, I-Iron without," she gargled before falling silent.

"Help me get her down," he whispered to Augustrix, and the two Astartes took her down from the walls. They looked as Lennax joined them and, taking his cloak, he wrapped her up in it and took her in his arms.

Recalling the words he heard her whisper over her dead kinsman, he spoke them aloud and repeated them. As they exited the shattered citadel, his brothers were speaking the same words.

Behind them, the walls of Castello Quae, Bello Deorum finally gave up their struggles and fell. Thousands of tonnes of concrete and masonry crashed to the floor with the sound of ferocious thunder and the ground shook as the foundations, unable to take the stresses and strains of the barrage, began to crack, opening the earth into giant tendrils of cavernous holes.

The Iron Warriors retreated, collecting their dead and wounded brothers as they went. The order rang round and all the warriors, human and Astarte, ran back to the first trench line as those left behind, starting with the Dark Angels, were swallowed up by the angry earth.

Finally there was quiet, though it was an eerie quiet. Lennax was approached by Sergeant Ingles of the Baranian guard. The sergeant removed something from his belt, as did all his brothers, a small token on whose front was engraved the head of Perturabo and on the back their company colours.

"I know that she is a husk now, sergeant, and that her soul, according to your customs, resides within the forests of your world, but her body is to be interned with honour aboard our vessel and these are to be placed with her. Is that understood?"

"Yes, lords." Ingles took Coronus's body reverently, the honour done to her memory obvious from how the Astartes thought of her. "Lords, we are to return to the ship, but the Warsmith is badly injured; all Iron Warriors are being called to the command tent to await further instructions."

Lennax nodded his thanks and, with a formal final salute to Freada Coronus, they turned about and strode to where the Iron Warriors were mustering. It had been a victory, and if like most victories, it had come at a price for both the Iron Warriors and the Imperial Army supporting them, then at least there was nothing left of the Dark Angels.

It was decided that the entire region would be bombarded from orbit, after the recording of apparent alteration of several Dark Angels by the Warp. No one wanted to be responsible for a civilisation centuries later to be tainted once more by whatever malady had affected the Dark Angels.

Warsmith Jasiera was interned within the Dreadnought that had once been Isolder, his sarcophagus engraved with his victories and his honours, but was left asleep. He would be called again once he had bonded with the Dreadnought's inner workings. When they rejoined their father they would choose a new Warsmith, but for the moment, Captain Kensar took over as interim commander.

On the twelfth deck of the _Olympian Sun_ , there was an area given to the Imperial Army to inter their most respected dead if they were unable to bury them on the world that had been brought into compliance. Lennax stopped and read the wall of the fallen. It was strange; he had never bothered with this area of the ship before. The only dead that he had concerned himself with before were his fallen brothers. There had been many over the years, and the entirety of Deck 9 was given to the internment of the dead sons of Olympia. Yet in the end, respect was due to all those who fell with honour.

Lennax wore his robes, his armour left in the hands of his armourer to be repaired. He had watched Kafados burn in the fires of sub-cyclonic bombs. Now he stood reading the long roll of the recognised dead of the Imperial Army regiment that was attached to them, those that had merited being buried on the _Olympian Sun_ itself. Reading the numbers beside the names, he made his way to where a stone tablet covered the casket that held her remains.

Something about her had touched Lennax and he was not sure what it was, indeed he doubted he would ever understand what it was, but her dying words as relayed to him by Artenena had sealed her place within the hearts of Squad Bellicose. With the permission of Captain Kensar, she had been listed as an honour-sister of the 123rd.

He rested his hand against her name-stone and spoke the words he had spent the last couple of hours learning in her native language. When he was finished he stepped back, saluted her, and bowed his head to the wall of the fallen before walking away.


	6. Interlude

The smoke rose, shaking, from the man's tabac stick, which was held a little too tightly. He did not like what was happening to him: he had been at home, minding his own business, not bothering a soul. No one knew his origins, where he had come from; all they knew was that he was an artist, nothing more. For them it had been enough. He had come to Gamma Erdoi Alpha Minor to live a life of non-consequence, doing private commissions and occasionally drawing for the children of the town he resided in but no more than that. He could not afford to do more than that. They had found him anyway.

Found him and took him to their ship. In the middle of the night, but then the night had always suited them best. Now he was sat here, in a darkened room, alone, told to wait and not move.

He had been given food, water and - when he asked one of the grim giants for a smoke - he had been given some by the black clad army man that now stood in the corner of the room. Encouraged by still being alive, he had tried to strike up conversation, but the other man was not talking except to say "be quiet".

Was he a prisoner? He thought he probably was, and once again he cursed his fates that had brought him to this place in time.

Suddenly, the door swung open, and without pause or thought he took one look at the sharpened teeth that glinted in the darkness and wept. The guard was dismissed and the giant stepped into the meagre light that was afforded the weeping human.

The giant was pale-skinned, dark-eyed, with long dark hair, his armour a midnight blue with many adornments upon it, his skull painted helm hanging at his belt. Light seemed to bend itself around him and then scurry away as if the mere touch of the man scared it to death.

After all, who would not be scared of the master of terror itself? The Lord of the Night, King of Nostramo Quintus, The Black Prince, these and a thousand other titles had been given to the Primarch that stood before him. As the giant neared him, he felt his bowels and his bladder loosen and was unmanned in the most humiliating way possible.

"I have come for you, Gavan Polarick." The voice was quiet, almost a whisper, but a whisper from the deepest depths of mankind's primordial fears. Then again, what else could have been expected?

"I-I did what was asked of me," Polarick squeaked.

"Yes, I know, but we are going back."

"Going back where?"

"Do not toy with me. You must have known this day would come. We are going back to where it happened, and you are coming with me."

"P-please L-Lord I do not…."

The face, pale and almost ghostlike in its intensity, moved down and in, the lips parting to show his filed teeth once more. He said nothing and yet the gesture was clear. Polarick lowered his head in defeat.

"Very well."

Konrad Curze smiled despite himself and stood to his full height before turning and walking out of the room. He curtly told the guard to transfer their guest to better quarters and to get him cleaned up, all his belongings to be brought up from the surface and left in his quarters.

Polarick put his head in his hands and wept once more.


	7. Chapter Five

Amon found himself with the Iron Lord and his Cobalt Brotherhood and Iron Circle; the Trident had been separated during the fighting that would end the Imperial Fists' presence on the Comrade's vessel. Already he had despatched several Imperial Fists, 'saving' Perturabo's life several times. Of course, it was not as if Perturabo couldn't have turned those blows aside himself, but ingrained training and natural reactions caused Amon to act as a bodyguard nevertheless. After all, he had been gene-wrought to protect the most powerful human in the universe; even if the Emperor had proven unworthy of Amon's service, protecting his son was merely an extension of that duty in his mind. He raised his guardian spear and, having been given command of Sergeant Idolas's Cobalt Brotherhood squad when the veteran had fallen in the last skirmish, he moved his hand in signals that told the Astartes of Squad Ironheart where to deploy.

The Astartes moved without complaint. If there were any misgivings or dislikes of the situation they now found themselves in, they kept their opinions to themselves. They were with their Primarch, and if he told them to obey a Custode, displaced or not, then they would do so.

Perturabo had moved to the other side of the vast metal doors and they could hear the sounds of bolter-fire: they were at their target. He glanced at Amon, nodded, and together Primarch and Custode burst into the room, Astartes and automata behind them.

The Imperial Fists numbered forty or fifty, and Amon could see the carnage the sons of Dorn had committed on the Iron Warriors' flagship. Crew members lay dead, either shot by the accompanying Imperial Army of the Inwit 24th Rifles or torn into pieces by Astartes weapons. Tech-priests lay dead, many in pieces, at the heart of the _Iron Blood_.

Iron Warriors battled bitterly with their cousins, the old rivalry out in force. This was not siege warfare, but no less bloody a combat for it. Amon's hair stood on end as he despatched an Imperial Fist coming at him with a blow from his guardian spear. He turned too late, engulfed in eldritch fire.

The Librarian behind him smiled a little and his voice entered Amon's head, unbidden and unwanted.  
 _  
Shall we see what Malcador left in there, traitor Custode?_

Librarian Hafalgnar closed his eyes and began to reach into the defences that surrounded Amon's psyche.

Amon moved to his knees. The pain of the invasion into his head was horrendous. The only man he had ever let into his mind was Malcador and no other; not even the Emperor had violated his private thoughts and memories in this agonizing way.  
 _  
Ah, she was a pretty thing, Amon; I am surprised you left her to become a Lion,_ the voice of the Librarian sneered. Amon roared like his nickname and tried to shut out the distant memories, ones that had laid buried for decades within his strict mind of duty and honour. Unlike some Astartes, he did no forget who he had been. The Astartes' conditioning meant that, after a time, memories of their childhoods faded to be replaced with their service in their Legion. Not so the Custodes. They did not have the same conditioning as Astartes for they were not meant for conquest: they had one duty and one duty only - to protect the Emperor and Terra. Now that was gone, and despair began to settle on his shoulders. The more Hafalgnar tore through his memories, desperately searching a secret he was realising he would never find, the more Amon began to regret things he had not thought of in decades.

His parents, siblings, a lover…he banged his fist on the ground and the taunting voice told him to let it go, that he would be free if only he released the burden he carried.

Of course, even if he had wanted to, even if he had broken under the interrogation, he couldn't reveal the secret - he didn't even know it.

Amon's eyes began to roll back in his head when, suddenly, he was free. Beside him stood Brother Ryax, a former Librarian who had done as was instructed after Nikaea. A sword that served as the focus of his power sat in his hand, and Amon felt himself be pulled away by two sets of strong arms.

Ryax unleashed the full fury of his powers and engaged the son of Dorn in a psychic battle.

 **++Amon, can you hear me, brother? ++**

Forrix knelt down, having entered the battle in time to see the Last Lion brought to his knees by the psyker.

Blood trickled from his ears and his nose, and as he raised his head, he heard Ryax shout something to his brothers. Instantly, a torrent of bolter fire ended the life of the Imperial Fist. The last thing he saw was Perturabo wading into the battle, his face full of fulfilled resolve. Then darkness began to descend, and the rest of the battle was lost to oblivion as Amon fell into unconsciousness, but his last thought was shock that the First Captain had called him brother.

* * *

The Death Guard were faring no better than the Imperial Fists, but what made it worse was that it was their own brothers they were fighting, Several boarding missions that broke into the _Eternal Scythe_ found only horror at what their brothers had become, and with death.

Captain Icarus of the Fifth Company could scarcely believe his eyes as he saw the misshapen humans and the altered Astartes coming at them. He had already ordered his men to cover their grills, but still the disease-ridden enemy found their way through. His father had told him to destroy the vessel, but first to do what must be done to make sure the abominations did not escape.

He was grateful that none of the Imperial Army had come with them; he did not want to have to deal with unbalanced humans as well as shocked Astartes. He split his teams off and told the Apothecaries not to collect the gene-seed, not even from their own dead; heaven alone knew what would happen to that if it got back to the Legion and was implanted into the next generation.

He and his men made their way to the bridge. As many foes as Icarus cut down, he lost in his own men, but reminding himself of the Primarch's words he used them as his own mantra. They didn't have a battle cry, nor did they need one, but in this hell he recalled the words Mortarion spoke when reunited with his Legion and spoke them aloud, his men following his lead.

 **++We are his unbroken blades; we are the Death Guard++**

By the time they got to the bridge, they were all shouting the creed at the tops of their voices, as if the words of their father gave them strength beyond strength to defeat whatever this nonsense was. However, the words died in their throats when they saw what awaited them.

On the floor of the bridge, the rotting corpse of Mistress Agnetha, the human commander of the _Eternal Scythe_ , was nothing more than a weeping mass of flesh. The stench that came from her and, indeed, from the rest of this once-vaunted vessel was overpowering, even to an Astartes. Icarus took in the scene before him; whatever deal the bastard Typhon had struck was certainly working its foul magics. He and his men moved through the doors onto the bridge proper and swept their weapons in continuous motion, their visors picking out the dead and barely alive to execute the latter.

They were also alerted to the high toxin and contagion levels in this room; soon, they would be overwhelming for even their famed resilience. Icarus heard something and span around, his warning trailing off as a giant horned Astarte rose from seemingly nowhere. The runes on his visor identified the - thing, for there was no other description he could find to suit it - as former Second Captain Ignatius Grulgor, The Commander.

"Impossible," Icarus whispered to himself.

"Ah, my dear Hadrian Icarus, tell me, brother: how do you like my new look?" Grulgor, or whatever it was, gurgled with a sound that was akin to the sound of vomit.

"What by Mortarion balls have you done to yourself?" Icarus asked. His shock was hidden behind his helm, but his vox grill only barely kept it from registering fully.

His eyes roved up and down the once-Astarte's body and he pulled a face as he saw the sores that continuously wept stinking pus down his body. Boils came to the fore and then burst, splattering their sickly yellow contents onto the floor, adding to the filth of human excrement and other bodily fluids. His brothers circled around him, each of them as shocked as their captain to see the remains of the Commander.

 **++Sir, is that really…the Commander? ++** , a newly elevated brother by the name of Charon asked across private vox.  
 **  
++Focus, brother,++** Icarus told him, **++whatever it is, whoever it is….will die++**

Around Grulgor, other members of his company rose up, all in varying states of decay and yet forever immortal. Icarus suddenly had no wish to find out what this plague, or whatever it was, would do to an Astarte. They were Death Guard, but judging by his former brothers' appearance, that was now literal.

"Oh come Icarus," Grulgor slowly pronounced, "this is the future; we are the Death Guard no more, we are the Dusk Raiders."

"Ironic, isn't it, Grulgor?" Icarus readied his bolter, and around him, forty battle brothers did the same. "You take the old Terran name for our Legion, and yet you hated our Terran brothers."

 **++Captain, we are in the engine room. I have lost half my squad, and that was after having to kill them twice++**

Icarus heaved a sigh; it was time to put this resistance of his to the test.

 **++Serack, old friend, get everyone out; hopefully I will see you again, my brother, but if not, then remember me well++**

 **++I am not leaving you, Captain,++** Serack affirmed

 **++Yes you are; set the charges and get the hell out of here, because if what is on this ship escapes, then we are all doomed, including father…. NOW GO!++**

He shut off the vox, and with the Primarch's words on his lips, he and his brothers opened fire….

* * *

Mortarion exited the boarding torpedo to much the same sight that had been reported from the other boarding companies. Galacias Yvesnena, one of the Seventh's newest members, had informed him that some heavy casualties were being reported on the _Eternal Scythe_ and that the captain had ordered a retreat whilst he fought something that was claiming to be Second Captain and Commander Grulgor. When Mortarion had asked him to elaborate on what he meant by 'claiming', the younger Astartes could not give him a proper answer. Mortarion had clasped his hand on the new addition's shoulder and told him not to worry, that they would get their answer soon. And they had. As they made their way from their exit point, Yvesnena was dragged by former First Company terminators into darkness, his screams to haunt his captain evermore.

Garro joined the Deathshroud in protecting their father. He wished he knew who they were, but that was impossible. No one knew who the Deathshroud were, only that they were former brothers who were unnamed and, when called to service, would answer to the Primarch alone, forgetting who and what they once were. He didn't realise that they were brothers believed deceased. Some things were not meant for the ears of others. Every Primarch had their own bodyguard, even if none needed one; Perturabo had the Iron Circle, cybernetic warriors programmed to be utterly loyal to him, alongside the Cobalt Brotherhood that had preceded the Circle's construction. Horus had the Justerian and the Mournival, one guarding the body and the other the mind, Sanguinius had the Sanguinary Guard, Fulgrim the Phoenix Guard... Mortarion had the Deathshroud, but more than any other Primarch, he wanted them distant from their brothers to do their job effectively. Garro appreciated that. Distance often bred objectivity, and in times like these objectivity was sorely needed.

Right now, one moved in front of him and the other behind him. Garro felt like he was part of something more than he had already been; in that moment he felt closer than ever to his Primarch. He relayed his orders to the Seventh. He smiled grimly, recalling the nickname given them, the Troublesome Seventh; well, that was exactly what they would be, and he for one wanted to do more than trouble the First Captain.

He did not want to believe that Calas Typhon would turn against his brothers like that, making some heretical pact. Yet he knew Typhon had made that pact with something that could reduce this once-glorious battleship of the Death Guard, a ship with a history befitting her status as a capital ship, to the present insanity. He ran a gauntlet along a section of bulkhead and it flaked away in his hand and between his fingers.

 **++Be careful, my son++** Mortarion's voice came across his vox **++We do not know the parameters of this…plague, for want of a better word; even touching her might pass on whatever malady has affected Typhon++**

 **++Yes, my lord, my apologies++**

Mortarion nodded and breathed in the air of his adopted home world. **++You are thinking the same as me, aren't you, Nathaniel? ++  
**  
The Primarch now spoke over their private vox, perhaps to hear his own thoughts vindicated.

 **++I was wondering, my lord, how long Calas has been in league with…whatever this is++**

 **++My thoughts exactly, my Battle-Captain. Indulge me a moment; did the Emperor ever speak of what lived in the Warp to you when you warred beside him during the Unification Wars? ++**

Garro was silent for a moment, scanning his memory for those days and shook his head. No, the Emperor had not. But someone else had.

 **++There was a brother of the Imperial Heralds, those of Lorgar's gene-seed who would become the Word Bearers. His name was Articas Savalios. The strange thing is that, afterwards, he claimed not to recall our conversation. Perhaps it was because of how much we'd drunk that night, but more likely he did not wish to admit... in those days, my lord, it felt like not merely nonsense but heresy. Active betrayal of the Imperial Truth++**

Garro paused and looked around him. When he realised that Mortarion was waiting for him to continue, he did another sweep, wary because they had so far met only the one attack that had claimed the life of the young Death Guard. When he was certain the way was clear, he continued.

 **++He told me that there were beings in the Warp; one, he said, was all the rage and fury of mankind. Its bloodlust personified, sitting atop a great brass throne surrounded by the skulls of the dead and set between rivers of blood.  
**  
 **The second, he told me, was like a giant feathered serpent, once seen by the people of Chin and Nippon as as much protector and luck-giver as destroyer, his feathers an array of colours forever changing, always shifting and never in the same way. This, he told me, was the master of magic and fate, the doorway through which every possible future plays out like pieces on a chess board.**

 **The Third was a bloated creature of death and decay, plague and pestilence. In him, he had said, is the only path humanity can know, for death and decay go hand in hand he said, where there is plague there is death, where there is pestilence there is decay.**

 **The last one, he said, was younger than the above, and whilst it is the greatest foe of the eldar, who will not even utter its name, for mankind, he said it lures them in with promises of power and all manners of emotions that humans restrict themselves from. This one, he said, was more unpredictable as its whims changed with its moods. He did not name them, for he did not know their names, and in truth he did not want to know them; but he said they were waiting, waiting for us to reach the stars once more where they could work on us and engulf the universe in their glory++**

 **++Did you believe him? ++**

 **++Even the eldar were talked about as a myth, in those days. I passed it off as a theological discussion on what humans used to believe haunted their nightmares. With the descriptions he gave I could truly see why the early civilisations felt the need for a powerful entity to protect them++**

 **++What happened to the Herald? ++**

 **++I believe he is a Dreadnought now, father; Lorgar did not want to lose such a keen intellect, and when he joined the Great Crusade, he made Savalios a Chaplain and one of the first at that. I do not know exactly what happened to him, but I know that he was interned in a Dreadnought, and perhaps he still lives as such now++**

 **++What do you believe now? ++**

 **++I believe that maybe Articas was right all along++**

Mortarion raised his Lantern and his Manreaper. **++I think I am inclined to agree with you, Battle-Captain, though I do not think it was Savalios who said those words at all++** Mortarion fell silent and cocked his head a moment later, as if listening for something. Then he stood still and told those of the Seventh that were with him to stand fast.

The floor of the deck they were on began to shudder and tremble; Mortarion looked to the ground and slowly raised his head to see the Terminators of the First Company stand before them.

"Do you not kneel before your Primarch?" he snarled "Or has that dog Typhon turned you all insane…."

His voice trailed as he saw, in the now-rising light, exactly what he was looking at. The Terminators were, like all the reports he was getting, mutated into something resembling what Garro had just been discussing.

He shook his head as he took in the ravaged forms of his once-mighty sons. The pinnacle of their brothers, First Company, whom he had fought alongside in battle with honour and pride more times than he could count. His heart wept to see how this curse had stolen everything noble about them. Yet the Death Lord's rage far outweighed his sadness.

"I said **KNEEL!** " Mortarion roared. His anger, usually so well kept in check, now exploded.

"They will not kneel to you, or to any other of your misguided brethren," a deep voice came from somewhere behind them, and the Terminators parted to allow the hulking individual that was once Calas Typhon to walk through. His Manreaper held high, the Herald of the Plague God stood proud before his former father.

Mortarion watched the thing that had been his First Captain stand before him. The silence stretched for what seemed like hours, but in fact was only seconds. With a speed that defied the house of disease that Typhus now was, he lashed out with his manreaper and tore the uniform of the Deathshroud warrior open, before allowing the flies within him to engulf and devour the Astarte within. The Deathshroud died without a sound, and with that the fighting started.

* * *

Icarus could scarcely contain his disbelief that, whatever Grulgor had become, he was not even flinching at the bolter rounds that hit him. The Fifth Company's shots tore chunks of flesh from him, yet as soon as a wound appeared it was covered over with the slime that covered his body.

He had lost half his squad some to the Second Company warriors who tore into them like they were paper, and others to Grulgor and his plague ridden claws. If Icarus survived this then he doubted he would ever forget that sound - his brothers' dying words as they succumbed to the virulence that was infesting their body - but what horrified him more was that moments after they seemed to die, they rose up and joined the ranks of their corrupt brothers.

Grulgor laughed, if you could call it that. "I wanted it to be Garro," he spoke. "Show him what a true lord of death looks like. But come, my brother; give up the fight, join us."

Icarus looked at the runes on his visor; the timer that his sergeant had set was nearly at the final second. He did not need to say anything to his brothers, for they already knew they would not see the next dawn; something had to be done to stop this madman and his sick god, or whatever it was that was changing the Death Guard into something else.

Their runes blinked in silent acknowledgement. Quickly, he blinked the status of his company. They had done as he had asked, leaving their dead and returned to their vessel. The thing that was Grulgor extended his arms, and his fingers plucked through one of the other Death Guard's visors, straight through his eyes, pouring the virulence into him.

Icarus saw the body shake several times before the gargled scream was silent. Astartes knew no fear, they said, but that was not entirely true: they were not afraid of death, Death Guard especially, for they knew it and accepted their end, an honourable death in honourable battle. This was neither; this was having their souls ripped from them and changed into something neither alive nor dead. And what made it worse was that it was one of their own doing this. This was what the cold hand of fear now crawling up Icarus's spine was for - not the death of him and his brothers, but becoming something that rotted for eternity.

He stepped back with the remainder of his warriors and sent a silent message to his father. Whether Mortarion would get it, he did not know. The advancing, silent plague marines raised their bolters, and the grinning demonic visage of Grulgor leered at him.

"That is good, Icarus; welcome, my brother."

"We are his unbroken blades." Icarus removed his helm, an act followed by his brothers. "We are his Death Guard."

Grulgor opened his mouth just as the explosives detonated.

The explosion, or rather the implosion, tore up through all the decks, running through them like a great volcanic inferno, incinerating all things in its path, a secondary explosion ripping through the Imperial Army Barracks and rending the shuffling corpses to ash. The Astartes, both those that carried the plague and those that had yet to be reanimated, were burned inside their armour,

Grulgor turned as the bridge exploded before being pulled in, the windows briefly venting into space with his warriors. He snarled an angry denial and was sucked into the vacuum of space. Icarus saw the pox marks on his skin and, like his remaining brothers, opened his arms and welcomed the cleansing flames that whooshed over them.

As Icarus's skin scorched and burnt, the last thing he saw was Grulgor, pulled back into the flames, shimmer under the wall of fire and then seemingly vanish back into whatever dimensional hell he had come from. Icarus closed his eyes as the _Eternal Scythe_ vanished in a ball of oblivion.

* * *

The _Iron Blood_ was silent now; the dead had been taken to the Apothecarion to have their gene-seed removed. Perturabo stood looking at the rows of Imperial Fist dead, lost in thought, and for a while no one uttered a sound.

"How is Amon?" Perturabo asked suddenly as his gaze fell on the dead Librarian.

"He will recover, Lord," Forrix replied.

"Did they get anything from him?"

"Not that I am aware, Lord, but I am not a Librarian." Forrix turned to the young Librarian that had come to the Custode's defence. "Ryax?"

Ryax stood straighter, aware that his father's cold blue eyes were now on him. He did not, however, look directly at his father, more to a point just over his shoulder. In the presence of one such as Perturabo, one did not look at him without reason, for fear of completely forgetting what they were about to say.

"From what I saw, my lord, he was tearing into Amon's distant memories. Whatever the late Sigillite put into Amon's head, it was well-buried."

"So we are going to have a problem," Forrix sighed. "They know Amon is alive and they know he has something in his head. They will not stop until they get it, and no one will be able to help him if the Emperor gets onto his trail."

Perturabo nodded and ran his hand down his face. "Give me some time to consider this, but for now we still have a battle to fight. I believe my brother needs some assistance, so have the Master turn about and head towards the Death Guard's position. I will not abandon his sons while I can make a difference. And get those bodies off my ship. If the enemy stuck something in them..."

Forrix turned, then stopped. "Father, what if their gene-seed is pure?"

"What?"

"If their gene seed is untainted, then we can make use of it."

The silence was like a shroud. For a moment it looked like Perturabo was going to dive into rage, but his faced creased back into a calm expression. For this was the ultimate pragmatism, and Perturabo prided himself on his pragmatism.

"Forrix, walk with me, the rest of you see to your duties. Apothecary, extract that gene seed and test it ten times more stringently than any you've tested before."

"Yes, Sire."

Forrix walked alongside the Primarch and he did not utter a word until they were alone. "Explain to me why you came up with such an – idea."

The truth was that Forrix hadn't just now gotten said idea. The truth was that he'd been wondering about the potential for Astartes with multiple sources of gene-seed implanted ever since an Apothecary had mentioned the theoretical possibility. But why now?

"Father, our gene-seed stores are depleted. Between the current surge of recruitment and the fall of Anamas... we're extremely reliant on yourself and Olympia now. Losing both is unlikely, but no longer unthinkable. Not much is unthinkable anymore. Moreover, if the next generation has both our skills and those of the Fists encoded, that might give them an advantage - hybrid vigor..."

"You asked an Apothecary."

"I have. Moreover, the Iron Warriors are scattered in garrisons throughout the galaxy, allowing for many irrecoverable losses."

Perturabo folded his arms across his chest and looked down at Forrix. This was a test, of course, as all such conversations were with the Lord of Iron. And Forrix knew that the reasons he had given did not suffice to pass that test, not even with the unsaid but understood undertone of doing it because they could. Perturabo knew he had another reason, even though that reason was one that was not likely please him.

Forrix swallowed, but continued with a firm voice.

"And... there was greatness in Dorn once. Principles that went beyond blind loyalty, for all our disagreements with his Legion. That is lost now, and I would honour that if possible. For the sake of the Seventh that was."

"Despite everything?" Perturabo asked, thoughtful.

"Despite everything," Forrix insisted.

Perturabo paused before letting out a melancholy sigh. "For the Seventh that was... We will do this, but it is my absolute decree that any son who is implanted with the gene-seed of both is not to be ostracised. I will not hesitate to punish those who disobey. We have already split down the middle too often. My sons are of different humours, and some pursue their own ends." His voice grew firmer, past solidity into hardness, and he raised a hand to forestall any words from Forrix. "But those that do still strive for the Legion's cause. They still believe in the ideals of purity and unity. In iron that can be broken, but not corrupted. They are still my sons, and so many have sacrificed themselves for me. And some... some I can rely on fully, and I am glad to have you among them. As well as the Iron Circle. And others from Olympia, like Orobras, Isolder, Berossus..."

Forrix shifted uncomfortably, speaking up when his Primarch paused. "Father, we have had a message from the _Olympian Sun_ that I have not have the ... Venerable Isolder is dead, killed by the Dark Angels. Warsmith Jasiera's company... there is a report you should read when this is all over."

Perturabo's face remained unreadable. Forrix almost wanted to repeat what he had said on reflex, but he held it down, because he knew the Lord of Iron had understood. Perturabo turned on his heel and walked away, Forrix knowing it was not the time to follow.

Forrix closed his eyes and, even as his feet carried him to his company, to ready them for battle, his thoughts walked backwards, to the tombs of his fallen brothers, their lost bodies, and their enduring victories.

* * *

Mortarion took the deaths of his loyal sons as strength, even when the last Deathshroud with him died defending his father. To spare his guard the horror of what was happening to the other dead Astartes, Mortarion took his head and, raising his gaze, focused on the source of his troubles.

Typhon, or Typhus as he now referred to himself, was laughing as the warriors of the Seventh were cut down. All across the _Terminus Est_ casualty reports were building, and there were those of the Seventh who became reborn as Dusk Raiders. But Mortarion, in the despair that followed, was bolstered by the news that those sons still fought their enemies, wanting death in the cleansing fires of their brothers flamers.

The _Terminus Est_ seemed to groan as the battle continued. Mortarion errantly imagined he heard her savage heart turn against all that she had been, as the walls started releasing new toxins and pestilence, the likes of which even his gene-enhanced perfect physiology had trouble keeping up with.

The Death Guard's famed resilience was being put to the test, but it was surviving that test. He saw Garro savagely take down two terminators, his beloved sword _Veritas_ keeping the dance of death going through the despair. The Death Lord focused his attention on the source of the madness and, with both his mighty Manreaper and his Lantern, began cutting a path through the enemy. Enemy - who would have thought that he would be calling his own sons, the product of his own genome, the enemy? Yet now, so it was.

"To the Primarch!" Garro shouted, and instantly his warriors followed their father, protecting him from all sides.

The Dusk Raiders fell back, finally remembering that their father, although not as broad as some of his brothers, had no less violence inside him than they did. When that was released, it was as thunderous and dangerous as any Primarch's. His face lit up with the fury of not just a father betrayed, but a father in mourning. His sons were meant to die in honourable battle, not as slaves to a power that only sought to corrupt them. The Terminators of First Company tried to escape the fury of their father, but with the Seventh closing in around them they were cut down by not just his manreaper but the weapons of the Troublesome Seventh.

 **++I want Typhus alive++** Mortarion voxed, his voice broking no argument and no divergence from his orders.

Typhus was no slouch in the slaughter stakes and he took his own toll on the Seventh and even his own brothers who tried to flee from their Primarch's fury. Eventually, inevitably, he came face to face with Battle-Captain Garro. His smile, although not seen, was clearly audible.

"You should not have betrayed the one that brought you honour, Battle-Captain," Typhus sneered. "There is still time for you to become one with the Grandfather."

Garro said nothing; every fibre of his enhanced being told him to cut this traitorous bastard down, and every cell of him raged at what had happened to his brothers. If Typhus wanted to throw his lot in with the so-called gods of the warp that was his downfall, but for Typhus to bring his own brothers with him….that just galled the Astarte Captain.

"Grulgor wanted to battle you, but he might have lost. I will do it instead. And when you are weakened... you will become one with the Grandfather and serve the Emperor!"

Garro dodged the stinking hulk before him and, closing his fist, threw it into Typhus's head, a massive blow that would have killed a normal human. As it was, it sent Typhus's head snapping back. A boot to his jaw sent him sliding backwards into the rotting walls. Garro advanced on the First Captain, ready to pummel him into oblivion.

Typhus brought his own manreaper up and blocked the attack; Garro had to move, lest the infested weapon cut his armour and riddle him with whatever lurked within that corrupted Terminator plate. That suit of power armour truly was an abomination, one that the Battle-Captain didn't exactly understand. Garro wasn't sure if the horn jutting from the middle of the Helmet was decoration or real, and he did not want to know, if the truth be told.

Typhus pushed him back and began showering blows down on the Seventh's commander. This was the reason that Typhon had been the First Captain: his sheer strength and brutality, in person and in command, made him the Legion's greatest Astarte, and as strong as he was, Garro was not strong enough to fend off the enemy captain's attacks. He began to feel himself black out when, suddenly, Typhus was picked up and hurled across the empty space of the room, now littered with the dead and the dying.

The giant stood over his battered Battle-Captain, protecting him, and as the former First Captain got to his feet he saw the true nature of his father. He saw the betrayal lined on the Death Lord's face, the slow promise of oblivion in his eyes, the air of Barbarus curling around his neck as he breathed it ever-quicker. Mortarion seethed - not the rapid fury or long-held grudges of Perturabo, not the berserk rage of some Primarchs, but merely the fact of inevitable punishment. This was the destroyer of tyrants, the final page of civilisations.

This was Mortarion the Death Lord. This was Typhus's doom, from which no unnatural endurance would save him.

In the split second before Typhus could stand fully, Mortarion grabbed him by his gorget and raised him up, his hand tightening around the fused armour neck joint, and snarled in the lounge of his homeworld.

"You were my solid companion, the one I trusted with my deepest counsel. And this is how you have paid me back, Calas, betrayed all I gave you to sign your soul to that bastard Lorgar and his sons. Did you take me for a complete fool? You were friends with his sodding First Chaplain... how else would they know where we were and what we were doing?"

He felt the First Captain start to go limp in his grip, then dropped him. He kicked the unconscious body across the space between them and returned to Garro, helping him to his feet.

"Order the men back to the _Indomitable Will_ , Nathaniel; you and I are going to do this alone."

Garro did as his father ordered. He was angered that he had to leave the honoured dead behind, but he understood the reasoning, and did not want any contagion to come aboard the Primarch's vessel and infect the rest of the Legion. Without a thought, Mortarion slung Calas's body over his shoulders and headed down to the engine room.

* * *

The Emperor smiled as Vulkan's eyes finally opened. Once he got his son from the healing tube, he laid him on a bed and covered his naked body. It had taken months for him to undo the damage that the Khan had wrought on his brother's body without damaging his mind. Indeed, Vulkan would in time recover to be even stronger than he had been before

He sat down beside the bed and, taking Vulkan's onyx hand in his, held it tight. The Salamanders were lost without him; they needed their father, and he would give him back to them. Vulkan was an artisan of war, and he needed his son to beat upon that anvil again. Yes, the Fireborn would march once more, with their father once more at their head.

He smiled in relief as he felt Vulkan's hand tighten around his. "You were wrong, Malcador," he spoke quietly to himself. "I am not what I once was; I am better than that."

"F-father?"

He glanced down at his son and smiled warmly. "Rest, Vulkan. You have fought your greatest battle; now rest and allow your body to fully heal."

"My sons…."

"Your boys are fine; they are under the guardianship of Numeon," the Emperor assured. "I will inform them that you are awake and will be with them when I deem it necessary for you to do so."

Vulkan licked his dry lips and, with his father's help, sat up and was handed some water. The Emperor ran a paternal hand over his son's bald scalp and smiled warmly in, for once, uncorrupted joy. That he had managed to save his son from the injuries that Jaghatai had inflicted on him was a personal triumph.

He sat in silence as Vulkan slowly drank the water and, inside, heaved a sigh of relief.

* * *

The battle was over. The only corrupted vessel to escape into the Warp was the _Tempus Fugit_. Mortarion had ordered no pursuit; it would be dealt with another time, in a more convenient place, but now they needed to recuperate and bury all too many dead.

The _Iron Blood_ had battled its way through the escorts and seen off the _Tempus Fugit_ , causing it to limp to the safety of its new foul master. Perturabo now stood in the engine room of the warped _Terminus Est_. Hanging above a large pit was the still unconscious body of Calas Typhon. Below, the seething foul heat of the vessel churned.

The warp core seemed to have a life of its own, eager for the sacrifice it was about to receive. When Perturabo had seen what had become of the Death Guard aboard here, he felt sick to the stomach. Yet another failing of their father's judgment. The Emperor had become the antithesis of what he had once represented - and Perturabo could finally acknowledge, despite or perhaps because of the pain of Isolder's loss burning in his breast, his hope that it had not been, in the end, himself or those ideals that had been at fault during the Crusade, but only the one who had formulated them. That his old unquiet had merely been a foreshock of the current treachery, and that he would be capable of finding peace in utopia, if that victory were ever to come.

And hope, most of all, that this true victory was not yet impossible. Not blind faith, not sheer certainty, but a calculated hope, in a sky of wondrous and terrible possibilities, that could survive even on this charnel ground.

Calas eventually came round to see his world upside down. Mortarion stood with Garro and Perturabo; all three transhumans had impassive looks on their faces. He struggled, but the ties that bound him were too strong, and eventually even he gave up trying and focused his blurred vision on his Primarch, ignoring the other two.

Mortarion's expression said it all, and not one word needed to be said. He had not slain his former First Captain; he had wanted him to see his executioner and not to die in battle. It was then that Typhus realised that the hive he had contained was gone. The grandfather had decided to forget him, for he had failed the Plague God, and so everything he had been granted was gone. He also realised that he was naked. His armour had been pulled from him to reveal the stinking husk that he had become.

Toxins raged through his body, cutting down any barriers in their way, but his Astarte physiology would not let him die. Even though his insides were black and rotted beyond all recognition, his Death Guard genome kept his hearts beating, though the blood they pushed through his arteries was filled with poisons and coagulants. He wanted to scream, but his tongue had fallen out; his eyes were on the verge of dropping from their sockets, and where the hive had been, great porous rents in his body wept not blood but pus that stank the entire room like a great house of the sick and dying.

It was in that moment that Calas Typhon understood, as all foes of the Death Guard must, the essence of his folly.

Mortarion moved to the edge of the warp core and pulled a lever. Typhon's gaze never left his father's face; even as his eyes fell out, his face remained on the Death Lord until he was gone. Mortarion waited until there was no trace of his traitorous captain before the trio left and returned to the _Indomitable Will_. Once aboard, Mortarion made his way to the bridge and watched as the _Terminus Est_ , once the pride of the Fourteenth Legion's fleet, was destroyed by ships that had once flown alongside it.

It would take a while, but he would restructure his Legion. For the moment, though, he had something else to do. He ordered that the names of every member of the First, Second and Third Companies that had been with their captains be struck from his Legion records. The game had been theirs to play, and it was Mortarion's Legion that had paid the entry fee - moreso, for once, than the Fourth. Half of his sons had died or worse in this campaign. But such was the toll of fratricidal war, Mortarion concluded. And against the Emperor, his sons would not hesitate to pay it.

Perturabo took his leave, ordering his Legion to meet up with the _Olympian Sun_. The two Primarchs parted on more friendly terms than ever before, even though they had never been this unlike each other.

Mortarion made his way onto the _Endurance_ , to the secret Apothecarion where two Astartes from the Seventh and Fifth Company lay. They were believed killed in the battle, but in truth they were in a deep slumber that they were just coming out of. Now the Death Lord stood before them and glanced at their readings, for it was his own manipulations that had ensured it would appear to be that way. He stood between them as they sat up.

"You will be Sergeant Crasian of the Seventh and Brother Terroa of the Fifth no more. What I offer you is the chance to be by my side, to join the other five of your former brothers in my Deathshroud. You must never speak again except to me and only me; to your companies you will be dead. I will have your names written on the Wall of the Fallen on Barbarus. So, do you wish to become brothers of my personal guard?"

Both Astartes swelled with pride and nodded. Apothecary Daxon, the only member of the Death Guard who held the secrets of the Deathshroud, stepped into the room and took charge. Mortarion told the two Deathshroud with him to help their new brothers into their armours, and left them alone as he walked into the shadows.

* * *

Perturabo waited as Apothecary Kadiz and Tech-Priest Nockana came to him with the results of the gene-seed testing. Apart from one or two instances that had been disposed of, despite the fact they were warring with things from the Warp, the Fists' gene-seed was surprisingly stable. He ordered it stored and sent to Olympia for implantation into some of the next generation, a random set of the Novitiates aboard also to receive the mixed gene-seed. It was an easy thing to continue along that road, accepting hybrid gene-sons with a brother that was as good as dead to him. He had envied Dorn for many decades, but now he felt a strange magnanimity towards his eternal rival. It was easier, perhaps; after all, Perturabo had faced an impossible dilemma but made a choice he now recognized as correct, and Dorn - despite everything - had crumbled in the face of that dilemma. For the first time in his life, and in the most important contest of all, Perturabo had surpassed the Praetorian.

Yet this did not truly calm his unquiet as to that decision until hours later, aboard the _Olympian Sun_ , after he took the Warsmith's oath from the new commander and saw to the internment of Jasiera into a Dreadnought.

As he headed to the hall of the fallen to pay his private respects to his fallen friend, he stopped as he saw Sergeant Lennax returning from the hall. The Sergeant was so lost in thought that he didn't see his Primarch and almost walked into him. The expression on his face was one some would describe as comical, an oath that had started to fall suddenly fading away to a choked sound from his throat.

Lennax immediately moved to one knee and bowed his head. His twin hearts hammered in his chest violently, and the love he had for his father merged with the poignancy of remembering his brothers and with sheer panic into a wave that rushed over him until tears fell down his face openly.

Perturabo held his giant hand out and pulled the sergeant to his feet. "Why are you here, Nedinius?"

Lennax almost fell when he realised that the Primarch knew his name, but managed to regain his composure.

"I have come to honour our fallen, my lord, and especially the brothers of my squad and those humans attached to it, before we continue with our allotted course."

Perturabo motioned to a seat across from the wall of honour and both men sat down. The Primarch was silent, and poor Lennax did not say a word, at first not sure if he should but then realising that he could not even if he wanted to. He had seen his Primarch before, but then Perturabo, even in person, had seemed distant, untouchable, in a way he did not now.

And Perturabo... Perturabo, the Lord of Iron, nodded as he realised that he had been right to accept Forrix's idea. For Lennax, he already knew, was here both for his battle-brothers and for the human scout his squad had bonded with in the war on Castelios Alpha. A baseline human - yet was she any less deserving of remembrance than the Iron Warriors? The risks that the men and women of the Army took were far greater than those of the Astartes, and as mere humans they also had, in truth, far more choice than Space Marines in the matter. Yet she, like billions of others across the galaxy, had thrown herself into the abyss of war regardless, for the Imperial Truth's ideals.

Perturabo was far more than human, far more even than Astarte. And as such, he knew, as he now reminded himself, to demand the most of himself, to throw his most dearly held preconceptions against the walls if they did not fit the new age they were building. Dorn had not been his enemy, before, he understood that now, and it was only right to memorialize that when it was practical, even in commingled blood.

And the present Dorn, who would surely and correctly take this as an insult, was certainly his enemy, and that too would have its memorial, written in blood of a different sort.

"So tell me, Nedinius, about the young human that your squad is calling the Iron Sister…."

* * *

Amon stood in the hangar waiting. Forrix stood beside him; no one else did. The Stormbird in the livery of the Thousand Sons slowly came to a halt when, suddenly, the First Grand Battalion's honour guard appeared and lined the dropping ramp, their weapons across their chests.

Amon was about to say something when Perturabo came in and all present snapped to attention. He rested a hand on Amon's shoulder.

"You will need to add two more names to your list, Amon, for after speaking with Mortarion we want you to add Barbarus and Olympia to your names."

"You honour me, lord." Amon bowed his head. "I will do it as soon as I am able."

Perturabo stood to one side to allow his Legion's serfs to approach. Between them they carried a great suit of armour done in the style of the Custodes but bearing the symbols of both a Death Guard and an Iron Warrior.

"You are a brother of both," Perturabo simply said. "When you reach Kegara, give Magnus my regards and tell him….tell him I miss our discussions."

"Yes, lord."

"I know you prefer to add your names yourself, but I have personally added your earliest names. The rest I leave to you."

"Thank you, lord."

Amon did not know what else to say; he had been the last of his caste, and now he had been, in a way, accepted into the Astarte brotherhood, not something he had ever expected to happen or even expected to want. With a deep bow to the Lord of Iron, he went to board the Stormbird before stopping. He removed two items from his uniform and gave them to Forrix.

"Would you see that my two human friends get these?"

Forrix nodded as he turned the objects, both on clasps, over in his hand; one was a carved image of Alyce Springs, and the other was a symbol of freedom from the land he hailed from. Memories, of a world now lost to them.

But was that all that would remain of them all, in time, when death called them away? Memories...

No.

Memories, and legacies. When the end did come - for some of the Primarchs, perhaps it never would, but Forrix had no doubts about his own fate - the dreams that they had built would endure.

Forrix watched as Amon left his view. He waited until the Stormbird was gone, brought his arm across his chest in salute, and walked away.

* * *

TO BE CONTINUED in the eighth book of the Renegades Saga, _Foundations in Scarlet_.


End file.
